TWO  SIDES 


Georpe 


... 

WO  Pacif 
« 


Two  SIDES  OF  A  STORY 


Two  SIDES  OF  A  STORY 


OLEY    GROWS     DAUGHTER.— MRS.     WINTER- 

ROWD'S    MUSICALE.  —  "  UNFINISHED."  — 

MARCH  AND  APRIL.— RAISING  CAIN. 


BY 
GEORGE   PARSONS   LATHROP 


BRENTANO'S 

UNION  SQUARE        NEW  YORK 
1900 


COPYRIGHT, 

1889, 
By  O.  M.  DUNHAM. 


CONTENTS. 


Two  SIDES  OF  A  STORY, 
OLEY  CROW'S  DAUGHTER, 
CAPTAIN  BILLY,    -       -       -       - 
MRS.  WINTERROWD'S  MUSICALE,    - 
"UNFINISHED,"    - 
MARCH  AND  APRIL,         - 
"RAISING  CAIN,"        ... 
IN  A  MARKET-WAGON,    - 


2061S99 


TWO  SIDES  OF  A  STORY. 


I. 


"T^ROM  Constantinople,  N.  Y.,  a  small  city 
i.  within  a  short  distance  of  Oneida  Lake, 
Martin  Updike,  a  young  but  able  lawyer,  who 
had  been  settled  in  the  place  for  less  than  a 
year,  was  suddenly  called  to  Kansas  City  on 
an  errand  of  considerable  interest. 

He  had  been  intrusted  with  a  claim  for  Baf- 
fler, Kidge  &  Co.,  wholesale  dry-goods  dealers 
in  New  York.  A  younger  member  of  this  firm 
had  been  a  chum  of  Updike's,  and  used  his  in- 
fluence to  put  the  case  in  his  friend's  charge. 
The  claim  was  against  one  Owen  Haymaker, 
who,  for  some  months,  had  kept  a  store  in 
Kansas  City,  and  had  made  a  sensation  by  the 
enormous  business  that  he  conducted. 

The  old  dealers,  who  had  grown  gray  in  the 
belief  that  they  represented  the  advance-guard 
of  "Western  enterprise,"  rubbed  their  eyes  and 
shook  their  heads  when  confronted  with  the 
peculiar  methods  of  Haymaker,  who  was  un- 


2  TWO   SIDES  OF  A    STORY. 

derstood  to  have  emerged  from  the  effete  and 
somnolent  East.  He  offered  the  most  extra- 
ordinary bargains  at  times,  selling  silks,  lawns, 
laces,  ribbons,  and  other  articles  for  about  one- 
twentieth  of  their  cost ;  and  the  result  was  a 
wild  scramble  of  customers,  each  eager  to  be 
first.  He  chartered  excursion  trains  from  out- 
lying places,  and  brought  buyers  free  of  charge 
to  his  door,  where  carpets  were  spread  on  the 
sidewalk  for  them  to  walk  over,  and  men  in 
livery  ushered  them  in.  Occasionally  he  went 
so  far  as  to  employ  the  best  local  brass  band 
to  give  a  gratuitous  concert  in  the  back  part  of 
his  large  "emporium ;"  and,  inspired  by  the 
music,  his  customers  flew  around  from  counter 
to  counter  as  actively  as  if  they  were  exercis- 
ing at  a  skating-rink. 

But,  when  his  prosperity  was  at  the  highest 
point,  he  disappeared  unceremoniously,  leav- 
ing a  number  of  large  accounts  unsettled ;  and 
it  was  found  that  just  before  leaving  he  had 
also  overdrawn  upon  two  of  the  Kansas  City 
banks  to  the  extent  of  more  than  twenty  thou- 
sand dollars;  his  illicit  gains  amounting  in  all 
to  about  one  hundred  thousand  dollars. 


TWO   SIDES  OF  A    STORY.  3 

A  few  days  before  his  departure,  his  wife 
had  taken  the  cars,  ostensibly  to  visit  friends 
in  the  East;  but  the  detectives  were  con- 
vinced that  she  had  changed  her  route  and 
gone  to  Canada,  carrying  part  of  the  booty 
with  her  perhaps,  and  that  Owen  Haymaker 
had  joined  her  there.  No  clew  sufficiently 
definite,  however,  could  be  obtained  to  make 
his  pursuit  and  capture  possible. 

Before  going  out  from  Constantinople,  Mar- 
tin Updike  called  upon  Miss  Angie  Breese 
(daughter  of  the  Hon.  Calvert  Breese,  a  well-to- 
do  merchant  and  distinguished  county  political 
magnate),  and  told  her  about  the  affair. 

"If  I  can  succeed  in  getting  the  claim  settled 
for  Baffler,  Kidge  &  Co,"  he  said,  "it  will 
make  my  fortune." 

"You  might  possibly  make  that  by  staying 
at  home,"  said  Angie,  whom  it  was  currently 
supposed  Martin  hoped  to  marry. 

And  it  was  quite  a  triumph  for  her  when  he 
returned,  after  a  couple  of  weeks,  without 
having  accomplished  anything. 

"It's  a  complete  wreck,"  he  said,  as  they  sat 
talking  together  again  in  the  lofty,  old  fash- 


4  TWO  SIDES  OF  A    STORY. 

ioned  parlor  of  her  father's  house,  which 
looked  out  on  the  fine  portico  formed  by  ma- 
jestic, fluted,  wooden  columns.  "The  man  left 
nothing  that  we  could  get  hold  of,  and  every- 
body has  given  up  hope  of  ever  tracing  him." 

"Well,  we've  done  much  better  than  that 
here,"  said  Angie.  "There  have  been  lots  of 
things  going  on.  Have  you  heard  yet  about 
the  dancing-party  at  Mrs.  Gen.  Cullender's? " 

"No."  ' 

"Oh,  you  ought  to  have  been  there !"  Angie 
resumed.  "It  was  almost  a  ball,  and  it  would 
have  done  you  good  to  see  all  the  attention  I 
received.  My  dance-card  was  full,  and  you 
know  a  card  like  that  is  a  cup  of  joy,  filled  to 
the  brim,  pressed  down,  and  running  over. 
That  is,  Eben  and  I  nearly  ran  over  some  other 
people  in  one  of  our  waltzes." 

"What,  Eben  Taft?"  Martin  asked,  hero- 
ically striving  not  to  look  jealous. 

"Yes,"  she  said.  "Eben  was  so  attentive! 
Why — would  you  believe  it — we  got  along 
splendidly,  he  and  I." 

Updike  felt  as  if  he  were  beginning  to  fade 
away  into  a  cloud  of  gloom. 


TWO  SIDES  OF  A    STORY.  5 

"Perhaps  it's  just  as  well  that  I  wasn't 
there,"  he  remarked,  with  what  is  commonly 
called  a  significant  air,  though  he  probably 
could  have  given  no  reasonable  explanation  of 
the  significance. 

"That  is  according  to  how  you  look  at  it," 
Angie  replied,  giving  a  friendly  little  pout. 
"But  we  had  a  new  sensation  at  the  Cullen- 
ders', too.  Have  you  heard  of  that?" 

Updike  began  to  be  irritated  by  these  refer- 
ences to  things  that  he  didn't  know  about. 

'"How  could  I  hear?"  he  asked.  "You  are 
almost  the  first  person  I've  talked  with  since 
I  came  back." 

"Well,  I'll  tell  you,"  said  Angie,  cheerfully 
ignoring  his  annoyance.  "There  is  a  new  arri- 
val, a  widow  she  seems  to  be — Mrs.  Garrish. 
She  has  hired  that  house  of  Gen.  Cullender's 
right  around  the  corner  from  him,  and  Mrs. 
Cullender  invited  her  to  the  party.  It's  the 
funniest  thing  that  she  should  have  made  such 
a  sensation,  when  there  wasn't  any  particular 
reason  for  it.  But  she  did.  I  guess  it  was 
principally  because  the  men  all  liked  her,  and 
the  women  mostly  didn't.  And  now  there's 


O  TWO  SIDES  OF  A    STORY. 

a  grand  question  whether  we  shall  visit  her 
or  not." 

"That  question,"  Updike  responded,  with  a 
shade  of  sarcasm  which  he  flattered  himself 
was  rather  delicate,  "must  be  decided  accord- 
ing to  how  you  look  at  it.  If  the  men  like 
her,  she  must  be  pleasant.  How  did  she  im- 
press you  f" 

"Oh,  very  charming.  She  is  quiet  and  sweet, 
and  doesn't  seem  to  be  trying  to  attract  atten- 
tion ;  but  it  comes  to  her  just  the  same." 

"Has  she  a  fine  presence?"  Updike  asked 
mechanically. 

"Yes,  a  great  deal  of  presence,"  Angle 
laughed  gayly ;  "and  a  good  deal  of  absence, 
too — absence  of  mind.  She  seems  to  lose  her- 
self in  reveries,  and  really  has  a  pathetic  way, 
as  if  she  had  been  through  lots  of  trouble. 
But  she  was  dressed — oh,  exquisitely! — with 
the  loveliest  diamonds!  Mamma  hasn't  de- 
cided yet  about  calling  on  her,  because  no  one 
knows  anything  about  her.  Now  you  see 
what  you've  missed  by  being  away.  You  can't 
even  join  us  in  talking  over  Mrs.  Garrish." 

"That's  a  pity,"  Updike  returned.     "But,  if 


TWO   SIDES   OF  A    STORY.  ^ 

I'd  seen  her,  I  might  have  been  inclined  to  talk 
others  over  to  her" 

"How?  Oh,  I  see!  You  mean  talk  other 
people  over  to  her  side." 

"Exactly,"  said  Martin.  "If  there's  any 
prejudice  against  a  person,  you  know  I'm 
always  disposed  to  take  up  the  defense." 

"I  know,"  Angie  answered,  "what  papa  says 
about  you :  that  you're  always  'on  the  other 
side' ;  so  much  so  that  you  even  want  to  argue 
against  yourself.  That's  why  you're  such  a 
good  lawyer,  he  says." 

"Because  I  argue  against  myself?"  Martin 
asked,  attempting  to  turn  the  compliment 
aside.. 

"No,"  said  Angie,  blushing;  "but  because 
you  look  so  carefully  at  both  sides,  and  attack 
your  own  position  until  you  learn  how  to 
defend  it  best." 

"I  dare  say ;  yes,  I  dare  say,"  Updike  mur- 
mured somewhat  inattentively. 

He  was  reflecting  how  often  he  had  defeated 
himself  in  argument  on  his  chance  of  winning 
Angie's  heart ;  and  he  wondered  whether  these 
frequent  defeats  really  strengthened  his  posi- 


8  TWO  SIDES  OF  A    STORY. 

tion.  But  he  was  unable  to  see  how  that 
could  be  possible.  Recovering  himself,  he  as- 
sumed a  jocose  superiority  of  age  and  wisdom. 

"Your  father's  view  is  a  very  kind  and  judi- 
cious one,"  he  said,  "and  I  hope,  Miss  Angie, 
that  you  will  profit  by  it  yourself,  and  follow 
my  example." 

"I  don't  see  how  I  can,"  said  she,  as  she  rose 
to  bid  him  good-afternoon;  "because  I'm  not 
going  to  be  a  lawyer  myself." 

Martin  was  strongly  tempted  to  ask,  "But 
couldn't  you  consent  to  be  a  lawyer's  wife?" 
Before  he  could  decide  to  do  so,  the  ponderous 
outer  door  of  the  Graeco-Roman  portico  swung 
open,  and  the  Hon.  Calvert  Breese  stepped 
into  the  hall. 

"Ah,  Martin,"  said  he,  presenting  his  rugged 
visage,  which  was  tinged  with  a  light  earthy 
brown,  like  that  of  old  parchment,  at  the  open 
door.  "Just  going?  Come  in  to  tea  this  even- 
ing. I  want  to  talk  to  you." 

Updike  knew  that  this  meant  a  conference 
on  politics,  and  he  accepted  the  invitation. 

When  he  had  left  the  house,  instead  of 
going  directly  to  his  office,  he  went  around 


TWO   SIDES  OF  A    STORY.  9 

through  Oneida  Street,  so  that  he  might  pass 
the  dwelling-place  of  the  newly  arrived  Mrs. 
Garrish.  It  was  a  cozy  little  abode,  with  a 
picturesque  corner-turret,  embowered  in  fruit- 
trees.  The  curtains  were  up,  but  no  one  was 
visible  on  the  premises. 

"What  childish  curiosity  in  me,  to  come 
around  here !"  he  growled  to  himself. 

Nevertheless,  when  he  returned  to  the 
Breeses'  for  tea,  he  was  in  hope  that  he  should 
hear  something  more  about  the  new-comer  of 
whom  Angie  had  spoken.  But  the  evening 
was  spent  in  the  study  of  the  Hon.  Calvert, 
who  had  work  in  view  for  the  young  lawyer  in 
the  approaching  State  campaign,  and  also 
intended  to  secure  for  Updike,  as  a  reward  for 
past  services,  the  party  nomination  for  Assem- 
blyman of  the  district. 

Updike's  "childish  curiosity,"  however, 
was  destined  to  be  gratified  the  next  day. 
About  noon  a  lady  entered  his  office  while  he 
was  sitting  there  alone. 

"I  was  advised  to  come  here,"  she  said  tim- 
idly, "by  General  Cullender." 

Updike     gave     a    little    start,     which     be- 


io  TWO  SIDES  OF  A    STORY. 

trayed  his  thought.  "Cullender?  Then  you 
are — " 

"His  new  tenant,  Mrs.  Garrish." 

"Oh  yes,"  said  Martin;  "I  know — that  is,  I 
shall  be  glad  if  I  can  be  of  service  to  you." 

She  was  richly  dressed,  he  observed, 
although  in  dark,  unobtrusive  colors;  but  the 
thick  vail  which  concealed  the  upper  part  of 
her  face  exasperated  him. 

"I  asked  the  general,"  she  proceeded  in  a 
soft  voice  that  floated  through  Martin  Updike's 
brain  like  the  memory  of  summer  nights, 
"about  making  some  investments.  But  he  did 
not  like  to  advise.  He  said  it  was  always 
better  to  employ  a  lawyer  to  care  for  one's 
estate,  and  recommended  you." 

Her  melodious  tones  gave  an  unbusiness-like 
charm  to  the  prosaic  words,  and  Updike 
answered  with  alacrity,  tempered  by  senti- 
ment: 

"If  you  will  tell  me  in  what  form  your  prop- 
erty is  at  present,  Mrs.  Garrish,  that  may  be 
the  best  way  to  begin." 

"Certainly,"  she  assented.  "But,  Mr.  Up- 
dike, let  me  ask,  do  you  not  know  me?" 


TWO   SIDES  OF  A    STORY.  II 

He  was  taken  aback.  "Know  you !  Why, 
this  meeting  with  you  gives  me  that  pleas- 
ure." 

"But  I  am  sure  we  have  met  before,"  said 
the  lady,  drawing  up  her  veil  with  such  deli- 
cate grace  that  it  seemed  only  done  so  that 
she  might  see  him  better,  and  not  to  show  her 
own  face. 

Bewilderment  and  excitement  were  added 
to  Updike's  interest  now,  as  he  returned  her 
gaze.  They  were  beautiful  eyes  that  met  his, 
mingled  of  dark  gray  and  brown  tints,  that  had 
the  soft,  shadowed  depth  often  seen  in  a  Lake 
Superior  agate.  And  it  was  a  beautiful  face 
from  which  they  looked  out  so  calmly.  Indeed 
the  eyes  reflected  the  whole  woman,  it  seemed, 
cool,  soothing,  and  restful.  At  once  the  truth 
rushed  upon  him,  while  with  a  quiet  smile 
Mrs.  Garrish  added:  "Don't  you  remember 
Long  Branch?" 

"Eva!"  exclaimed  Updike,  fairly  rising  to 
his  feet.  "Eva  Tuthill!" 

"Hush,"  said  the  lady,  without  agitation, 
but  in  a  warning  tone  that  checked  him. 
"Don't  utter  that  name  again!" 


12  TWO  SIDES  OF  A   STORY. 

"Why  not?"  he  asked.  "What  reason  can 
there  be  for  concealing  it?" 

Mrs.  Garrish  sighed.  "I  will  tell  you  all  the 
reasons  by  and  by.  But  it  is  a  long  story." 

She  leaned  back,  as  if  the  weight  of  sad 
recollections  suddenly  oppressed  her. 

The  lawyer  insensibly  passed  into  a  subdued 
and  sympathetic  mood. 

"You  don't  know  how  delightful  it  is  to  see 
you  again,"  he  said  dreamily.  "And  so  you 
have  come  to  live  among  us  here?  Will  your 
aunt  come  too?" 

"She  is  dead,"  answered  Mrs.  Garrish  softly, 
as  if  she  were  laying  a  wreath  of  flowers  on  a 
grave.  "I  am  utterly  alone  in  the  world." 

"But  you  are  Mrs.  Garrish  now.  Your  hus- 
band— is  he  also — " 

"Ah !"  She  paused  after  that  word.  "It  is 
only  a  few  years  since  you  and  I  met  at  Long 
Branch;  but  a  great  deal  has  happened  since." 
Again  there  was  a  pause.  "My — husband — 
is  still  living." 

Updike  rose  and  paced  the  floor.  At  length  he 
asked,  hesitating:  "Are  you  separated,  then?" 

He  began  to  think  the  situation  embarrass- 


TWO   SIDES  OF  A    STORY.  13 

ing,  a  little  unpleasant,  possibly  dangerous. 
Angie  and  her  mother,  and  the  ladies  at  Mrs. 
Cullender's  had  perhaps  been  right  in  viewing 
Mrs.  Garrish  slightly  askance.  But  her  man- 
ner disarmed  this  thought. 

"It  is  a  painful  thing  to  speak  of,"  she  said. 
"When  Gen.  Cullender  gave  me  your  name, 
and  I  found  you  had  established  yourself  here, 
I  knew  I  should  have  to  explain  to  you.  But 
then  I  also  knew  that  I  should  find  in  you 
an  old  friend ;  and  that  made  it  easier.  My 
husband  has  deserted  me." 

She  hid  her  face  in  her  hand  one  instant,  and 
Updike  shuddered  at  his  own  momentary  in- 
justice. 

"Is  not  that  enough  for  me  to  say  now?" 
his  visitor  asked,  looking  up  at  him  with  pale 
entreaty.  "He  has  done  even  worse  than  that. 
But — no,  I  can  not  tell  you  now !" 

This  time  she  turned  her  face  away,  making 
a  half  movement  to  rise ;  and  Martin  began  to 
be  alarmed  lest  she  should  drop  her  veil  again. 
But  she  did  not.  He  paused  in  his  walk  near 
her.  "Believe  me,"  he  said,  with  real  emotion, 
"I  am  terribly  grieved  to  hear  this." 


14  TWO   SIDES  OF  A    STORY. 

Visions  came  back  to  him  of  the  one  vaca- 
tion at  Long  Branch  which  had  fallen  to  his 
lot.  That  was  when  he  had  been  a  village  law- 
student,  before  he  came  to  Constantinople.  He 
remembered  Eva  Tuthill  as  a  brilliant  girl 
among  the  many  beauties  at  the  sea-side, 
where  she  was  staying  with  her  aunt ;  he 
remembered  how  a  brief  sentimental  friendship 
had  grown  up  between  himself  and  Eva ;  the 
long,  delicious  summer  nights  and  the  hollow 
moaning  of  the  breakers  below  the  bluff.  His 
heart  grew  tender,  and  he  warmed  with  a 
desire  to  vindicate  her  now  from  any  asper- 
sions that  might  be  cast  upon  her. 

"But  you  must  not  tell  any  one,"  she  ad- 
jured him,  after  they  had  talked  for  some 
time.  "I  have  come  here  to  escape  from  the 
past,  and  to  conceal  myself.  Afterward,  when 
the  right  time  comes,  everything  can  be  made 
clear  to  others.  I  have  trusted  you,  Mr.  Up- 
dike. You  will  keep  the  trust?" 

"Absolutely,"  he  assured  her. 

Mrs.  Garrish  paused  at  the  door  as  she  was 
going. 

"We   have   had  no  time  for  business,"  she 


TWO   SIDES  OF  A    STORY.  15 

reminded  him ;  "and  I  hardly  feel  like  talk- 
ing of  it  now.  But  why  not  come  to  see  me  at 
my  house  some  evening?  Would  it  be  too 
inconvenient?" 

The  smile  with  which  she  ended  made  a 
captivating  question-mark. 

"No  inconvenience  at  all,"  said  the  lawyer. 
"When?" 

Again  it  was  only  as  an  interrogation  that 
Mrs.  Garrish  said,  "To-morrow?" 

She  left  him,  with  a  brief  pressure  of  the 
hand.  Here  was  Martin  Updike,  therefore,  in 
possession  of  the  secret  about  which  all  the 
Constantinople  gossips  were  speculating ! 

The  business  conversation  at  Mrs.  Garrish's 
house  was  far  from  being  tedious.  Her  prop- 
erty, it  transpired,  was  chiefly  in  the  form  of 
cash,  the  result  of  an  unexpected  legacy  from 
a  distant  relative  in  California.  She  wanted  to 
invest  some  of  it  in  unregistered  government 
and  railroad  bonds,  after  Updike  had  explained 
to  her  the  nature  of  those  securities.  There 
were  about  sixty  thousand  dollars,  and  of  this 
she  asked  him  to  take  ten  thousand  dollars  and 
deposit  it  to  his  own  credit. 


1 6  TWO   SIDES  OF  A    STORY. 

"Because,"  she  said,  "I  wish  to  keep  out  of 
reach  of  my  husband.  Whenever  I  want 
money  I  will  call  upon  you,  and  I  can  draw  a 
check." 

"It  would  be  unusual,"  said  Martin,  notwith- 
standing that  he  was  deeply  flattered  by  the 
confidence  she  put  in  him. 

So  is  my  situation  unusual,"  she  answered. 
"Dear  Mr.  Updike,  I  must  beg  you  to  oblige 
me!" 

He  could  not  resist  the  appeal  of  those 
eyes,  with  their  soft,  agate  depths. 

"I  am  so  glad  you  consent !"  said  his  fair 
friend ;  and,  to  his  amazement,  she  stepped 
into  the  library,  opened  a  safe  which  had  been 
let  into  the  wall,  and  took  out  ten  one-thou- 
sand-dollar bills,  which  she  insisted  upon  his 
taking,  in  spite  of  all  protest  that  he  could  offer. 

"I  will  arrange  all  this  by  a  written  agree- 
ment, which  you  shall  sign  to-morrow,"  Up- 
dike informed  her,  putting  the  bills  into  an 
inside  pocket. 

He  remained  with  her  a  long  while,  chatting 
about  old  times,  until  it  occurred  to  him  all  at 
once  that  he  had  agreed  to  go  to  the  final 


TWO   SIDES  OF  A    STORY.  17 

meeting  of  the  Charade  Club  (it  was  now  June) 
and  escort  Angie  Breese  home.  The  meeting 
was  at  Mrs.  Puff's,  a  few  streets  distant ;  and 
he  hurried  thither,  carrying  the  ten  thou- 
sand dollars  with  him.  Everybody  noticed  his 
exhilarated  manner  when  he  came  in;  but 
Angie  had  been  wondering  why  he  did  not 
come  earlier,  and  she  was  less  responsive  than 
the  rest  were  to  his  gayety. 

Once  out  of  doors  with  her  again,  starting 
for  home,  he  said:  "I've  seen  Mrs.  Garrish,  and 
find  that  I  knew  her  several  years  ago." 

"Do  tell  me  all  about  her,  then!"  cried 
Angie. 

"Ah !"  said  Martin,  with  a  dry  complacency, 
"that's  asking  too  much.  I  am  bound  not  to 
tell  at  present.  But  you  may  take  my  word 
for  it  that  she's  all  right." 

A  coolness  that  was  not  born  of  the  night 
wind  immediately  diffused  itself  around  the 
pair.  At  the  next  street-crossing,  Angie,  who 
had  allowed  Martin  his  usual  privilege  of  tak- 
ing her  arm  in  his,  released  it  on  pretext  of 
holding  her  dress ;  and  after  this  they  walked 
separate. 


1 8  TWO   SIDES  OF  A    STORY. 

"Then  you  have  known  her  very  well?" 
Angie  asked. 

"Not  especially,"  he  returned.  "That  is,  I 
knew  her  only  a  short  time  formerly,  and  have 
just  begun  to  know  her  again  now." 

"You  were  there  to-night?"  was  the  next 
question  from  Angie. 

Updike  resented  the  tone  in  which  it  was 
uttered.  "Yes,"  he  said,  and  was  half  resolved 
to  make  no  explanaton.  But  he  added,  "She 
required  my  advice  on  business  matters." 

It  was  a  relief  to  both  these  young  people 
when  they  stopped  in  front  of  the  Hon. 
Calvert  Breese's  house.  Ordinarily,  Updike 
would  have  gone  with  Angie  up  the  steps ;  but 
this  time  he  stopped  at  the  gate.  She  shook 
hands  with  him ;  but  her  touch  was  so  indiffer- 
ent that  he  almost  wished  she  had  not  done  so. 

II. 

For  three  months  following  that  night,  a 
social  war  raged  in  Constantinople. 

People  were  not  slow  to  discover  that  Up- 
dike had  called  on  the  mysterious  new  tenant 
of  the  turreted  cottage;  that  he  had  known 


TWO   SIDES  OF  A    STORY.  19 

her  before ;  and  that  he  continued  to  visit  her 
frequently.  He  was  at  once  besieged  and 
waylaid  with  ingenious  questions,  the  sub- 
stance of  which  was:  "Is  she  a  widow,  or 
divorced?  Who  is  she?  Where  did  she  come 
from?" 

Updike  himself  did  not  know  where  she  had 
originally  come  from,  and  he  was  debarred 
from  answering  the  other  questions. 

Now,  society  likes  a  mystery  that  it  knows 
all  about ;  one  that  is  supposed  to  be  a  secret, 
yet  still  can  be  discussed  in  corners  as  if  it 
were  a  rare  discovery,  which  ought  not  to  be 
generally  mentioned.  But  a  mystery  to  which 
there  is  no  handle  at  all  merely  provokes  soci- 
ety, and  comes  to  be  regarded  as  an  insult  to 
its  intelligence.  A  strong  party,  therefore, 
was  speedily  arrayed  against  Mrs.  Garrish,  on 
the  ground  that  she  was  not  a  conveniently 
intelligible  mystery.  Updike,  however,  did 
his  best  on  her  behalf  by  making  general  state- 
ments in  her  favor.  With  Mrs.  Gen.  Cullen- 
der it  was  a  matter  of  pride  to  uphold  the 
lady  whom  she  invited  to  her  house ;  and  she 
accordingly  placed  herself  at  the  head  of  a 


20  TWO  SIDES  OF  A    STORY. 

defensive  faction,  with  Martin  Updike  as  her 
chief  lieutenant.  Hence  all  the  tears,  and 
woe,  and  deadly  combat  without  blows,  that 
ensued. 

A  variety  of  unpleasant  rumors  were  circu- 
lated about  Mrs.  Garrish,  and  indignantly 
denied  by  the  Cullender-Updike  party.  Old 
friends  were  estranged,  and  families  divided 
on  this  issue ;  and  as  the  Hon.  Calvert  Breese 
and  his  wife  ranged  themselves  with  the  hostile 
forces,  Updike's  relations  with  Angie  were 
broken  off.  But  this  did  not  come  to  pass 
without  a  plea  on  the  young  lawyer's  part  for 
tolerance. 

"You  ought,"  said  he  to  Angie,  in  a  final, 
dignified  interview,  "to  cultivate  the  faculty  of 
understanding  both  sides  of  a  question.  I  can 
remember" — here  his  voice  took  on  a  refined 
bitterness — "when  your  father,  a  few  weeks 
ago,  used  to  praise  that  faculty  in  me.  But 
now,  because  it  doesn't  suit  him  to  have  me 
exercise  it" — 

"You  are  looking  at  only  one  side,"  Angie 
interrupted;  "and  that  is  Mrs.  Garrish's." 

"As  it  happens,"  Martin  retorted,  "I  am  the 


TWO  SIDES  OF  A    STORY.  21 

sole  person  who  is  in  a  position  to  comprehend 
both  views  of  the  situation ;  and  you  ought  to 
accept  my  judgment  without  debate." 

"No,"  said  Angie.  "I  can  see  only  one  side 
at  a  time,  and  I  prefer  that  it  should  be  the 
right  side.  You  are  puzzling  everybody  by 
your  silence,  and  so  is  Mrs.  Garrish;  and 
mamma  has  told  me  that  I  must  not  see  you 
any  more,  because  you  are  making  mischief 
and — that's  what  she  says — a  scandal !" 

So  they  parted. 

"A  scandal!"  Yes;  that  was  true;  Up- 
dike was  aware  that  gossip  had  been  set 
astir  by  his  frequent  meetings  with  Mrs. 
Garrish.  But  how  could  he  help  it?  He  had 
to  see  her  often,  because  he  was  attending  to 
her  affairs.  His  pride  rose,  and  his  sense  of 
fair  play  for  Eva  Garrish  lent  its  aid  in  making 
him  stubborn  and  unrelenting. 

When  September  came,  the  Hon.  Calvert 
Breese  had  changed  his  sentiments  about  Mar- 
tin as  completely  as  some  of  the  leaves  had 
changed  their  color  in  the  beautiful  wooded 
landscape  surrounding  Constantinople. 

"This  business  of  Updike  and  the  Garrish 


22  TWO   SIDES  OF  A    STORY. 

woman,"  the  Hon.  Calvert  declared,  "has  set- 
tled that  young  man's  chances  for  the  Assem- 
bly nomination — if  /  have  anything  to  say 
about  it."  And  Mrs.  Breese  fully  concurred 
in  this  resolution. 

Hearing  of  it,  Gen.  Cullender,  although  he 
had  hitherto  invariably  supported  the  Hon. 
Calvert  in  politics,  at  once  organized  a  move- 
ment to  run  Martin  Updike  as  an  independent 
candidate.  But  even  this  signal  honor  did  not 
quite  console  our  friend  for  the  unhappy 
trouble  between  Angle  Breese  and  himself; 
more  especially  since  he  had  noticed  that 
Eben  Taft,  formerly  his  hopeless  rival  in  the 
race  for  Angie's  hand,  was  now  constantly  seen 
with  her  at  picnics,  teas,  tennis-parties,  and  the 
like. 

Two  opposition  series  of  summer  entertain- 
ments had  been  kept  going  all  through  these 
months;  and  to  one  of  them  Mrs.  Garrish's 
enemies  were  never  invited.  Consequently, 
Updike  could  not  meet  Angie  on  any  occa- 
sion, and  they  had  even  ceased  to  bow 
when  they  passed  on  the  street.  Yet  some- 
times, late  at  night,  when  the  streets  were 


TWO   SIDES  OF  A    STORY.  23 

deserted,  Martin  would  march  up  and  down 
under  the  wind-tossed  maples  that  stood  in 
line  before  her  father's  house,  with  here  and 
there  small  rain-pools  gleaming  dimly  in  the 
road,  like  fallen  tears;  and  Angie,  in  the 
silence  of  her  room,  would  listen  to  the  wind 
among  the  maples  as  if  it  were  a  banished  lov- 
er's sigh. 

Still,  Martin  was  proud ;  and  neither  of  them 
could  give  way.  On  a  certain  autumn  after- 
noon he  took  Mrs.  Garrish  with  a  large  driving 
party  to  the  lake.  They  went  out  in  a  boat 
by  themselves;  and,  as  they  floated  in  a  shel- 
tered cove,  she  said  to  him  suddenly:  "I  have 
heard  from  my  husband.  Read  that !" 

He  took  the  paper  that  she  gave  him.  The 
envelope  that  inclosed  it  was  postmarked  at  a 
village  on  the  northern  border  of  New  York, 
but  the  sheet  itself  bore  neither  address  nor 
signature.  It  contained  these  words : 

"You  have  refused  my  claims  long  enough. 
You  think  I  am  afraid  to  come;  but  perhaps 
you  will  find  yourself  mistaken.  I  give  you 
two  days  more  to  send  or  bring  me  the  money. 
After  that—" 


24  TWO  SIDES  OF  A    STORY. 

Here  the  missive  ended,  leaving  some  sinis- 
ter threat  to  be  imagined.  Updike  was  aston- 
ished and  troubled.  "Then  he  proposes  to 
come  back  to  you  ;  is  that  it?"  he  asked. 

Eva  Garrish  smiled  with  melancholy  sar- 
casm. "He  knows  that  I  have  this  money," 
she  said,  "and  he  wants  it." 

Updike  thought  he  comprehended.  "I  see. 
He  wants  to  extort.  But  that's  preposterous !" 

"Not  a  cent  of  it  belongs  to  him !"  Eva 
asserted  with  unusual  vehemence.  "Besides," 
she  added,  sinking  her  face,  "he  is  not  really  my 
husband." 

"How  is  that?"  Updike  asked,  strangely 
agitated. 

Tears  stood  in  Eva's  eyes  as  she  answered : 
"He  married  me  under  a  false  name,  and  after 
a  time — by  accident — I  found  out  that  he  had 
done  it  to  conceal  from  me  his  previous  mar- 
riage." 

"A  bigamist,"  muttered  Updike.  "The 
scoundrel !  Then  you  were  not  really  married 
to  him?" 

"What  am  I  to  do?"  asked  Eva,  sobbing. 
"Whom  can  I  look  to  for  defense  against  him?" 


TWO   SIDES  OF  A   STORY.  25 

"You  can  look  to  me,"  said  Updike, 
chivalrous  indignation  blazing  from  his  eyes. 
"If  he  ever  shows  his  face  here,  /'//  settle 
with  him !  But  why  didn't  you  tell  me  before?" 

Eva  gave  him  one  glance  of  gratitude. 

"It  was  foolish,  I  know,"  she  confessed.  "But 
I  didn't  know,  at  first,  how  good  and  generous 
you  could  be.  I  dreaded  to  tell  you  my  dis- 
grace." 

"Disgrace!"  Updike  ground  the  word  be- 
tween his  teeth.  "The  disgrace  was  that  man's 
not  yours."  After  thinking  a  moment,  he  said : 
"Let  me  give  you  an  instance."  Then  he 
rapidly  narrated  what  he  knew  of  Owen  Hay- 
maker's operations,  and  was  gratified  to  see  that 
Eva  listened  closely.  "Now  there,"  he  wound 
up,  "Haymaker's  wife  was  supposed  to  be  in 
collusion;  but,  even  if  she  were  so,  the  real 
guilt  was  his.  Do  you  suppose  I  can  blame  her 
as  I  do  him?  I  represent  this  claim  of  thirteen 
thousand  dollars  against  him,  for  Baffler,  Kidge 
&  Co.  But  you  can't  imagine  that  I  would 
demand  settlement  from  her?  " 

"No,  of  course  not,"  Eva  softly  agreed, 
drawing  a  deep  breath. 


26  TWO  SIDES  OF  A    STORY. 

"Very  well,"  said  Updike,  strengthening  his 
point.  "She  is  a  hundred  times  worse  off  than 
you,  because  you  are  absolutely  innocent." 

His  ardor  was  well-nigh  quenched  in  the 
despairing  depths  of  Eva's  eyes  as  they  met 
his. 

"Oh,"  she  sighed,  "if  this  trouble  of  mine 
had  never  happened ;  or  if  I  had  only  met  you 
again  before  it  came !"  She  then  collected  her 
thoughts,  as  if  the  words  that  she  had  spoken 
had  been  merely  part  of  an  unspoken  rev- 
erie. 

"We  must  row  back  and  join  the  others!" 
she  said. 

Updike  drove  with  her  from  the  lake  in  a 
buggy.  The  moon  was  rising,  and,  as  they 
rode  along,  its  cold,  silvery  rays  seemed  to 
mingle  with  their  talk.  Martin  kept  revolving 
in  his  mind  that  significant  exclamation  of 
hers;  and  once  he  burst  out: 

"Why  do  you  still  bear  that  man's  name? 
You  are  free,  and  have  a  right  to  drop  it." 

She  did  not  reply  immediately,  and  he  be- 
came aware  that  she  was  trembling.  Her  voice 
was  barely  audible  when  she  said:  "It  is  the 


TWO   SIDES  OF  A    STORY.  27 

mark  of  my  past,  and  I  must  bear  it  because  I 
have  no  future  to  look  forward  to  that  can 
wipe  that  out." 

Martin  trembled  a  little,  too.  He  asked 
himself,  as  if  he  had  been  a  third  person, 
whether  Martin  Updike  was  about  to  make  an 
offer  of  marriage.  But  the  subject  was  not 
pursued,  and  they  arrived  at  Eva's  house  almost 
in  silence. 

"Please  come  in,"  she  said,  when  they  had 
alighted.  "That  letter — it  has  frightened  me. 
I  hardly  dare  to  go  into  my  own  house  alone. 
Besides,  I  have  something  to  say." 

Updike  was  ready  enough  to  comply ;  and, 
when  they  had  entered,  she  led  the  way  to  the 
library.  They  sat  down. 

"This  man  who  wrote  that  letter,"  she  be- 
gan, with  downcast  lids,  "seems  to  threaten 
something.  Suppose  he  were  to  come  here  and 
rob  me?" 

"But  he  can't,"  Updike  opposed.  "I  have 
part  of  your  bonds.  The  rest  are  in  the  safe 
deposit." 

"There  is  something  more,"  said  Mrs.  Gar- 
rish.  "I  have  kept  nearly  forty  thousand  dollars 


28  TWO   SIDES  OF  A    STORY. 

in  cash  in  that  safe."  She  pointed  to  the  re- 
ceptacle in  the  wall. 

"Forty  thousand  that  you  haven't  told  me 
about!  "  gasped  the  young  lawyer.  "It's  a  ter- 
rible risk." 

"I  know  that,"  she  admitted.  "What  shall 
I  do?  Will  you  take  it  and  put  it  away  for 
me?" 

Updike  shook  his  head.  "No.  That  would 
be  too  great  a  responsibility.  I  have  enough 
already." 

Mrs.  Garrish  took  out  her  keys.  "Then  you 
must  let  me  do  this  much,"  she  said.  "If  you 
could  get  for  Baffler,  Kidge  &  Co.  the  money 
that  Haymaker  owed  them,  it  would  help  you 
with  them.  It  was  thirteen  thousand,  you 
said.  I  am  going  to  pay  it !" 

"You!     Why?" 

"Because  it  will  be  doing  you  some  benefit; 
and  I  feel  that  I  am  positively  bound  to  make 
this  much  return  for  your  stanch  friendship.  It 
fairly  belongs  to  you  to  hand  to  your  clients." 

"But  that  sum  is  over  one-tenth  of  your 
whole  fortune.  I  couldn't  possibly  accept  it ; 
neither  could  my  clients,"  Updike  protested. 


TWO   SIDES  OF  A    STORY.  29 

He  was  amazed  at  her  lavish  generosity ;  yet 
it  touched  him  too,  for  he  could  no  longer 
doubt  the  sincerity  of  her  attachment  for  him. 

She  approached  him  with  an  air  of  intense 
entreaty. 

"Do  take  it,"  she  implored.  "Do — for  my 
sake !  I  should  be  so  happy  if  you  would." 

She  seemed  to  be  in  such  distress  that  he 
instinctively  rose  and  took  her  hand,  to  calm 
her. 

"Eva"  he  said,  "may  I  call  you  so? — I  could 
not  accept  such  a  gift,  even  if  I  were  married, 
and  it  were  offered  by  my  own  wife." 

"Your  wife !"     she  echoed. 

He  could  feel  her  hand  quiver  as  it  lay  in  his. 
She  drew  it  away,  and  made  a  few  steps  to- 
ward the  table. 

"Then,"  she  said,  "I  must  leave  this  place. 
If  I  can  not,  at  least,  be  of  some  use  to  you,  I 
had  better  disappear.  You  know  I  have  made 
discord  ever  since  I  came.  I  have  separated 
you  from  some  of  your  friends;  I  have  done 
you  no  good ;  and  now,  if  I  am  not  to  have  the 
right  to  make  you  amends,  I  shall  go." 

"Eva!"  he  exclaimed,  following  her.     "You 


30  TWO   SIDES  OF  A    STORY. 

must  not  think  of  such  a  thing!  You  owe 
it  to  yourself  to  stay — and  to  me.  I  can  not 
let  you  go  until  all  your  wrongs  have  been 
righted,  and  you  are  put  in  a  clear  position 
before  every  one." 

She  smiled  sadly,  yet  with  a  sort  of 
triumph. 

"Well,"  she  asked ;  "and  then,  after  that—" 

Updike  had  never  felt  so  powerfully  the 
bewitchment  of  her  mysterious  eyes.  For  one 
instant  he  thought  of  Angie ;  but,  in  the  next, 
Eva's  glance,  mingled  of  vague  question  and 
mute  sorrow,  overcame  him. 

"After  that,"  he  answered,  "whatever  hap- 
pens, you  must — stay !" 

"Do  you  wish  it?"  she  asked,  in  fascinating 
submission,  bending  her  head  toward  him  until 
it  almost  touched  his  shoulder. 

"I  do,"  he  replied,  feeling  that  he  was  the 
only  man  on  whom  she  could  depend  in  her  for- 
lorn situation,  aud  that  he  ought  not  to  fail 
her. 

The  next  moment  he  was  startled  by  a 
strong,  quick,  masculine  voice  in  the  parlor. 
Eva  shrank  back,  and  dropped  into  a  chair. 


TWO   SIDES  OF  A    STORY.  31 

"He  has  come,"  she  said,  in  a  voice  subdued 
by  terror.  "  That  man  !  " 

Updike  turned,  and  saw,  coming  directly 
toward  them,  a  man  in  shabby  clothes,  with 
a  long,  thin,  black  beard,  who  had  not  taken 
the  trouble  to  remove  his  flat-brimmed  felt 
hat. 

"I  told  the  servant  I  had  important  busi- 
ness, and  would  walk  right  in,"  this  unpleasant 
apparition  announced,  as  he  came  forward. 

Eva  cowered  silent  in  her  chair,  very  pale ; 
but  Updike  burned  with  wrath.  "And  who 
are  you,  sir?"  he  asked. 

The  flat-brimmed  individual  seated  himself 
and  said  coolly:  "I'm  only  the  man  that  had 
the  misfortune  to  marry  that  woman,"  pointing 
his  thumb  at  Eva.  "And  I  guess  you  are  the 
young  lawyer  that  my  private  detective  spot- 
ted hanging  around  her.  Let's  see — Updike, 
ain't  it?" 

"I  am  Mr.  Updike,"  Martin  responded  coldly. 
"Take  off  your  hat !" 

"Thank  you,"  said  the  man.  "I  don't  need 
to.  My  head  ain't  as  hot  as  yours." 

"Probably,  then,"  retorted  Martin,  "it  is  as 


32  TWO   SIDES  OF  A    STORY. 

cold  as  your  heart.  I  know  about  your  pre- 
tended marriage  with  this  lady,  sir.  And  I 
know  what  you've  come  here  for.  You  want 
to  extort  money  from  her.  But,  in  the  first 
place,  you  are  a  bigamist ;  and  in  the  next 
place,  the  money  belongs  entirely  to  her." 

Apparently  the  stranger's  hands  were  hotter 
than  his  head ;  for  he  now  began  to  pull  off 
a  pair  of  thin  lisle-thread  gloves. 

"Go  slow,  now,"  said  he.  "You'  have  got  to 
look  at  both  sides.  That  first  marriage  that 
you  refer  to  was  entirely  in  fun.  I  supposed 
it  was  a  joke,  until  the  young  lady  and  her 
folks  began  to  make  a  fuss  and  insist  that  I  was 
really  her  husband  according  to  the  law,  be- 
cause I  had  spoken  of  her  as  my  wife  before 
witnesses.  Then  I  skipped ;  and  when  I  met 
Miss  Tuthill  I  married  her  under  another  name, 
because  I  didn't  want  those  people  to  get  after 
me  and  find  it  out." 

Updike  turned  to  Eva.  "Is  that  story  of 
his  first  marriage  true?"  he  asked. 

Mrs.  Garrish,  still  seated,  drew  herself  up 
haughtily  and  said,  "I  believe  so." 

"Nevertheless,"  said  Updike  to  the  intruder, 


TWO   SIDES  OF  A    STORY.  33 

"the  first  marriage  was  legal,  and  Mrs. — I  mean, 
Miss  Tuthill— is  free." 

The  other  man  rolled  up  his  gloves,  and  put 
them  into  his  coat-pocket. 

"She  may  be  free  of  marriage,"  he  answered 
deliberately,  "but  that  doesn't  necessarily 
make  her  free  from  theft,  does  it?" 

"What  do  you  mean,  sir!"  thundered  Up- 
dike, starting  toward  him  violently.  "Remem- 
ber that  I  intend  to  protect  this  lady." 

"Oh  yes,"  said  his  adversary,  who,  as  easily 
as  if  he  were  taking  out  a  cigarette,  drew  a 
revolver,  and  held  it  quietly  in  his  hand. 
"And  I'm  going  to  protect  myself." 

At  this  point  Eva  sprang  up. 

"Oh,  Martin,"  she  cried,  "be  careful!  This 
man  is  desperate.  I'll  tell  you  who  he  is:  he  is 
Owen  Haymaker!" 

"Haymaker!"  repeated  Martin,  in  a  dazed 
tone.  "Is  he  your  supposed  husband?" 

"Yes." 

Updike  hardly  believed  that  she  had  spoken 
the  word.  But  he  was  speedily  brought  to  a 
comprehension  of  realities  by  hearing  Hay- 
maker say : 


34  TWO   SIDES  OF  A   STORY. 

"Yes,  sir;  I'm  the  man.  You  must  excuse 
me  if  I'm  a  little  rough.  Garrish  is  the  name 
I  married  her  under,  and  Haymaker  is  the 
name  that  dawned  upon  me  afterward.  I've 
had  several  names;  but  I'd  no  more  think  of 
keeping  one  name  all  the  time  than  I  would  of 
sticking  to  an  old  coat  after  it  was  worn  out. 
Mrs.  Garrish  knew  all  about  the  new  name, 
though ;  and  she  stayed  by  me  just  the  same. 
What  do  you  suppose  she  did  after  that? 
Why,  when  I  had  collected  about  a  hundred 
thousand  in  cold  cash  by  a  smart  business 
operation,  I  gave  her  the  whole  boodle  to  carry 
away.  She  was  to  meet  me  with  it  in  Canada. 
But  I  went  up  there  a  few  days  later,  and  she 
wasn't  on  hand.  She  had  skipped  East  with 
the  boodle ;  and  now,  here  she  is !" 

"What  do  you  say  in  answer  to  this  extraor- 
dinary charge?"  Updike  asked  of  Eva. 

She  stood  perfectly  still ;  but  her  face  looked 
as  if  it  had  been  coated  with  a  premature 
frost. 

"It  is  all  true,"  she  said,  her  lips  scarcely 
moving.  "But  he  had  cheated  me ;  he  had 
deceived  me  by  a  false  marriage ;  and  then  he 


TWO   SIDES  OF  A    STORY.  35 

expected  me  to  aid  him,  for  his  own  profit,  in 
cheating  others.  I  took  my  revenge  by  carry- 
ing away  the  great  sum  of  money  that  he 
intrusted  to  me. 

"Oh,  Martin,"  she  cried,  clasping  her  hands, 
"you  must  believe  me  when  I  say  that  I  did 
not  really  mean  to  keep  it  all.  I  only  wanted 
to  hide  somewhere,  until  I  found  a  way  of 
restoring  it,  without  being  imprisoned  myself. 
And  when  I  discovered  you  here,  I  thought 
you  would  help  me  through  in  the  end.  I  was 
tempted  to  delay;  and  this  is  my  punishment. 
But  you  know  that,  just ,  before  this  miserable 
man  came  in,  I  offered  you  the  full  amount  of 
your  claim,  and  you  refused  it." 

At  this  point,  Eva  fell  on  her  knees  and 
moaned  to  Updike: 

"Forgive  me;  oh,  forgive  me!  It  was  be- 
cause I  loved  you." 

Mr.  Haymaker  seemingly  did  not  relish 
hearing  this  confession.  He  fingered  his  idle 
revolver  in  such  a  way  as  to  indicate  that  he 
would  like  to  give  it  employment.  As  for 
Updike,  he  was  so  aghast  at  the  double  revela- 
tion thus  laid  before  him  that  the  sweat  broke 


36  TWO  SIDES  OF  A    STORY. 

out  upon  his  forehead.  He  suffered  from  a 
sense  of  criminality,  more  than  the  two  crimi- 
nals themselves  suffered. 

"It's  no  time  for  such  words  as  these,"  he 
said  frigidly  to  Eva.  "You'd  better  stand  up 
again." 

But  he  nevertheless  assisted  her,  with  much 
gentleness  and  courtesy,  to  rise.  When  she 
had  regained  her  feet,  she  shot  toward  Hay- 
maker such  an  icy,  basilisk  look  that  all  the  old 
charm  died  out  of  her  eyes,  for  Updike.  It 
struck  him  at  once  that  their  resemblance  to 
agates  had  been  prophetic. 

The  whole  woman  was  as  smooth  and 
polished  as  an  agate,  but  just  as  impenetrable; 
and  the  melting  dusk  that  he  had  imagined  as 
lurking  in  her  eyes,  now  seemed  to  Updike — 
if  such  a  thing  were  possible — a  petrified 
shadow. 

Eva  guessed  the  change  in  his  feeling;  but 
she  was  determined  to  win  a  victory,  one  way  or 
another.  She  addressed  herself  to  Haymaker : 

"You  said  in  your  letter  that  you  would  give 
me  two  days.  But  I  received  the  letter  only 
this  morning." 


TWO   SIDES  OF  A    STORY.  37 

"That  ain't  my  fault,"  he  rejoined.  "I  gave 
it  to  a  man  to  carry  across  the  Canada  line, 
and  mail.  I  suppose  he  forgot  it. 

"By  the  way,"  he  continued,  speaking  to 
Updike,  "I  wrote  to  Mrs.  Garrish  three  weeks 
ago,  threatening  to  come  here;  but  she 
thought  I  didn't  dare  to  because  I'd  be  arres- 
ted for  swindling.  Well,  you  see  I  have 
dared ;  and  the  fact  that  I'm  here  proves  the 
sincerity  of  my  statements  to  you.  I  admit 
the  fraud." 

"Then  you're  a  fool  as  well  as  a  knave  !" 
Updike  declared.  "I  will  put  you  into  the 
hands  of  the  police." 

"Yes,"  Eva  chimed  in,  vindictively.  "Mr. 
Updike  knows  all  about  it.  He  represents 
one  of  the  claims  against  you. 

"And  here,"  she  added  to  Martin,  handing  him 
her  safe-key,  "this  gives  you  control  of  all  that 
money !  You  are  master  of  the  situation  now." 

This  was  her  victory  over  Haymaker.  The 
villain,  however,  was  not  disconcerted.  He 
twirled  the  loaded  cylinder  of  his  revolver 
between  finger  and  thumb,  making  it  click.  "I 
guess  I'm  the  master,"  he  said  languidly. 


38  TWO   SIDES  OF  A    STORY. 

"You  think  so?"  Martin  inquired,  planting 
himself  directly  in  front  of  Haymaker.  "Let 
us  look  at  the  facts  calmly.  If  you  shoot 
anybody  here,  you  will  have  murder  on  your 
hands  as  well  as  fraud.  I  hold  this  key ;  and 
most  of  the  property  is  where  you  never  can 
find  it,  even  if  you  commit  a  dozen  mur- 
ders. Now,  sir,  I'll  give  you  one  minute  and 
a  half  to  get  out  of  this  house." 

He  pulled  out  his  watch  and  held  it  up; 
meanwhile  eying  the  man  and  the  pistol,  with 
a  strong  conviction  that  he  was  likely  to 
receive  a  bullet  the  next  moment.  But  his 
only  chance  was  to  brave  the  thing  out. 

Haymaker  whistled. 

"You've  got  sand,"  said  he.  "If  I  clear 
out,  do  you  promise  not  to  have  me  fol- 
lowed?" 

"I  promise  nothing,"  Martin  replied  firmly. 
"The  hand  has  passed  forty  seconds.  You'd 
better  move." 

Haymaker  rose  and  dropped  the  pistol  into 
his  side-pocket  again.  "I  ain't  murdering  just 
now,"  he  said;  "and  I  guess  I'm  mated  this 
time.  Good-night !" 


TWO   SIDES  OF  A    STORY.  39 

Thereupon  he  turned  and  walked  out  of  the 
house. 

As  the  door  closed  behind  him,  Eva  crept 
toward  Updike,  and  said  piteously:  "What 
will  you  think  of  me,  Martin?" 

Updike  shuddered  as  if  an  adder  had 
touched  him. 

"Don't  ask  me  to  answer  you,"  he  said.  "I 
am  going  at  once  by  the  back  way  through 
the  garden  to  Gen.  Cullender's  house,  to  sum- 
mon help  and  ring  up  the  police.  In  five  min- 
utes I  shall  be  here  again  with  help." 

He  struggled  with  himself  for  an  instant, 
wishing  to  give  her  some  kind  word,  possibly 
to  tell  her  that  she  had  better  fly;  but  he 
stifled  the  impulse,  and  strode  rapidly  toward 
the  glass  door  of  the  library,  which  opened  on 
the  garden. 

III. 

In  the  early  dawn  there  was  a  great  whist- 
ling and  chirping  of  blackbirds  that  had  col- 
lected in  the  outlying  gardens  of  Constanti- 
nople, preparatory  to  their  southward  flight. 
Updike  and  Gen.  Cullender  were  closeted 


40  TWO   SIDES  OF  A    STORY. 

together,  counting  over  the  contents  of  Mrs. 
Garrish's  safe,  when  this  cheerful  uproar  of  the 
birds  began;  and  just  then  a  constable  came 
to  them,  saying  that  Haymaker  had  been  ar- 
rested near  the  railroad  station. 

Mrs.  Garrish  was  never  found :  how  she  suc- 
ceeded in  getting  away  remained  a  mystery. 
But  the  chatter  of  the  migrating  blackbirds 
was  as  nothing  in  comparison  with  the  gossip 
exicited  by  the  strange  termination  of  Up- 
dike's relations  with  her.  At  first  it  was  said 
that  he  had  connived  at  her  escape ;  and  the 
fact  of  his  large  bank  account,  which  had  been 
drawn  upon  exclusively  to  meet  her  current 
expenses,  was  brought  up  against  him. 

But  fortunately,  he  was  able  to  produce  the 
agreement  that  he  had  been  careful  to  draw 
up,  witnessed  by  Gen.  Cullender,  and  his  own 
astute  office-boy,  showing  the  purpose  of  that 
account.  Furthermore,  having  possession  of 
Mrs.  Garrish's  whole  property,  he  turned  it 
over  to  Barrier,  Kidge  &  Co.  and  the  rest  of 
Haymaker's  creditors;  so  that  their  claims 
were  almost  completely  satisfied. 

Yet,  notwithstanding    all    this,   there    was 


TWO   SIDES  OF  A    STORY.  4 1 

much  debate  in  local  society  as  to  whether  he 
had  acted  rightly.  There  were  those  who  said 
that  he  had  compromised  himself  with  Mrs. 
Garrish.  There  was  a  group  that  maintained 
that  he  had  really  intended  to  get  possession 
•>{  her  nefarious  wealth  for  his  own  benefit,  but 
could  not  carry  out  the  scheme.  Another 
more  lenient  party  acknowledged  with  regret 
that,  while  the  results  were  good,  considered 
merely  as  a  superior  sort  of  detective  work 
(since  he  had  secured  all  the  property  wrong- 
fully obtained  by  Haymaker),  Updike's  meth. 
ods  of  recovering  it  were  reprehensible. 
A  few  people  stood  by  him  uncompromis- 
ingly, and  defended  his  whole  course  of  con- 
duct. 

Thus  the  young  man,  who  had  always  been 
in  favor  of  looking  at  both  sides  of  a  question, 
found  himself  uncomfortably  enclosed  between 
the  two  sides  of  his  own  story.  He  was  mor- 
tified by  the  result  of  his  championship  of 
Eva,  and  humiliated  by  the  thought  that  he 
had  been  ready  to  sacrifice  his  love  for  Angie 
Breese,  in  favor  of  this  plausible  adventuress. 
The  Hon.  Calvert  was  slow  to  give  any  sign 


42  TWO   SIDES  OF  A    STORY. 

of  reconciliation ;  but,  so  far  as  Updike  could 
ascertain,  Angie  had  not  yet  engaged  herself  to 
Eben  Taft. 

One  day  it  chanced  that  he  met  her  just  as 
he  was  passing  under  the  maples  by  her  fath- 
er's door.  Contrary  to  his  expectation,  she 
bowed  to  him,  with  a  smile  that  seemed  to 
hold  out  some  faint  promise  of  forgiveness. 
He  stopped  after  he  had  passed  her,  ran  back, 
caught  up  with  her  again,  and  said : 

"Miss  Breese,  you  have  heard  all  sorts  of 
things  about  me,  I  suppose?" 

"Yes,"  said  Angie,  flushing. 

Her  fair  hair  shone  around  her  face  like  the 
halo  of  some  uncalendared  saint. 

Updike's  voice  shook  slightly:  it  may  have 
been  from  the  exertion  of  hurrying  after 
her. 

"Remember,"  he  said,  "you  ought  to  con- 
sider both  sides." 

"Oh,  yes,"  she  answered,  laughing;  "I  re- 
member. But — you  must  forgive  me — I  am 
just  the  same  as  I  always  was.  I  can  see  only 
one  side ;  that  is,  yours !" 

They  were  married  in  November. 


TWO  SIDES  OF  A    STORY.  43 

"How  about  the  independent  candidacy?" 
Gen.  Cullender  inquired  of  Updike  a  fort- 
night before  the  wedding. 

"As  to  that,"  Updike  answered,  "I  can't  tell 
you.  /  run  on  the  regular  ticket." 


OLEY  GROWS  DAUGHTER. 
I. 

(f  T  OOK  out  for  a  ducking  now!"  cried  the 
\_j  skipper.  "We're  on  the  Rip." 

Maurice  Creese,  crouching  near  him  in  the 
smack  which  was  darting  through  furrows  of 
foam,  felt  an  added  motion  from  the  short,  ter- 
rible swash  of  breakers  rolling  over  the  shal- 
lows like  a  section  of  Niagara  rapids;  and  he 
ceased  to  take  much  interest  in  the  low  bank 
of  sand,  surmounted  by  a  white  light-house, 
which  appeared  to  be  dancing  up  and  down 
near  the  boat.  He  was  not  quite  over  the  dis- 
comfort caused  by  this  performance,  when  the 
smack  dropped  her  sail  and  brought  up  at  the 
old  whaling  wharf,  close  to  the  houses  of  Nan- 
tucket. 

"How  about  my  trunk?"  he  questioned. 

"Your  chest?"  returned  the  skipper,  trans- 
44 


OLEY  GROWS  DAUGHTER.  45 

lating  him.  "I  guess  Oley  Grow  '11  see  after 
that,  if  he's  around." 

"Grow,  eh !" 

"Yes,  I  tell  'ee — Grow.  Anything  agin 
him?" 

"No,"  answered  Creese.  But  he  failed  to  ex- 
plain why  he  repeated  the  name  as  if  it  were 
familiar. 

A  half-witted  youth  loitering  among  the 
tackle  went  off  in  search  of  the  unknown  quan- 
tity represented  by  the  name  "Grow,"  and 
came  back  with  it  reduced  to  concrete  form. 
Oley  Grow  proved  to  be  a  short,  dumpy  man 
with  a  foreign-looking  face,  and  a  despondent 
expression,  partially  modified  by  what  seemed 
a  thick  knitted  night-cap  pulled  over  his  ears. 
He  was  attached  to  a  heavy  cart  surrounded 
by  a  low  railing  like  a  ship's  taffrail,  which  he 
commanded  with  a  maritime  air,  holding  a  stiff 
whip  upright  at  the  tail  of  his  horse  as  if  it 
were  a  tiller. 

"Want  to  move  that  chest  ?"  he  demanded,  on 
dismounting. 

"Yes." 

Grow  ran  several  steps,  and  tapped  the  bot- 


4<5  OLEY  CROW'S  DAUGHTER. 

torn  of  his  cart  energetically.  "Here's  the  arti- 
cle!" he  exclaimed.  "This  and  that'll  do  the 
business  for  'ee."  He  pointed  to  his  horse  and 
then  slapped  himself  on  the  breast.  "Now 
where  do  you  want  to  go?"  he  concluded,  tri- 
umphantly. 

"I  don't  know  exactly,"  said  Creese,  with  a 
smile  which  suddenly  made  Grow  aware  that 
the  stranger  was  a  handsome  young  fellow. 

The  carter  lowered  his  whip,  and  dejectedly 
waited  for  more  information. 

"Do  you  happen  to  know  a  place  where  I 
could  board?"  Creese  inquired. 

"How  long  you  want  to  stay?" 

"Two  or  three  weeks." 

Grow  became  confidential.  "I've  been  a  cast- 
away myself,"  he  announced,  "and  I  don't  mind 
saying  I  guess  I  can  'commodate  ye,  though 
ye  be  a  townie." 

"All  right,"  said  the  young  man,  apparently 
much  exhilarated. 

He  was  accordingly  stowed  on  the  cart  with 
his  trunk,  and  his  new  landlord  trundled  him  off 
slowly,  navigating  first  the  grass-edged  cobbles 
of  one  street,  then  the  sandy  ruts  of  another,  and 


OLEY  GROWS  DAUGHTER.  47 

finally  bringing  up  in  front  of  an  old  house  with 
a  brass  knocker  and  enormous  wooden  latch  on 
the  door.  At  the  side  was  a  tangled  garden, 
thickly  spotted  with  the  color-points  of  flowers. 

The  first  thing  Creese  did  on  getting  to  his 
room  was  to  open  the  window  and  gaze  out. 
The  house  had  at  some  time  been  cut  in  two 
lengthwise,  and  one  half  had  been  slid  along 
a  few  yards  for  the  better  lighting  of  the  inte- 
rior. He  found  himself,  owing  to  this,  placed 
at  an  angle  where  he  could  survey  the  rear  of 
the  garden.  To  his  surprise  he  discovered, 
among  a  mass  of  petunias  and  hollyhocks,  a 
face  staring  fixedly  up  at  him.  "They're  going 
to  take  a  look  at  me,  too,"  he  muttered. 

The  next  moment  he  burst  into  a  laugh. 
The  face  was  a  wooden  one. 

There  could  be  no  mistake;  he  was  ex- 
changing glances  with  a  weather-beaten  piece 
of  oak,  carved  and  painted  into  a  semblance  of 
humanity.  It  was  nothing  but  an  old  figure- 
head from  some  ship,  planted  here  as  if  it 
might  thus  sprout  into  a  beauty  it  had  never 
known  before.  What  heightened  the  absurdity 
was  that  it  bore  a  likeness  to  old  Grow  himself. 


48  OLEY  GROWS  DAUGHTER. 

Presently,  however,  there  was  a  rustling  of 
the  leaves  near  it.  A  gate  in  the  back  fence  of 
the  garden  had  opened,  and  this  time  it  was  a 
veritable  pair  of  eyes,  a  rosy  cheek,  and  two 
sweet  feminine  lips  that  presented  themselves 
to  his  view.  The  girl  to  whom  these  attributes 
belonged  halted  a  moment,  smelled  the  flowers, 
then  stepped  out  on  to  the  path.  Something 
caused  her  to  look  up  sideways.  Creese 
thought  he  had  never  seen  so  wonderful  a  profile. 
It  was  like  a  cameo,  enlarged,  suffused  with 
pink,  and  made  to  breathe.  The  eyebrow 
painted  a  downward  shade,  above  the  eye ;  the 
corner  of  the  lips  was  drawn  a  little  back;  the 
chin  was  round  and  strong.  Her  whole  bear- 
ing was  that  of  unconscious  beauty,  fearless 
simplicity ;  and  the  purplish  print  she  wore  lent 
these  the  charm  of  appropriateness.  Her 
head  was  bare,  but  the  abundant  hair  made  a 
covering  for  her  like  a  web  of  filigree  gold. 
Involuntarily  Creese  withdrew  from  sight ;  but 
in  a  moment  he  heard  her  steps  entering  the 
house,  and  was  unreasonably  glad. 

At  supper  she  reappeared.  "Then  you  are  Miss 
Grow?"  he  hazarded,  receiving  no  introduction. 


OLEY  GROWS  DAUGHTER.  49 

She  blushed  and  made  no  answer.  "Yes, 
that's  my  Jessie,"  said  her  father.  "Wife,  is 
the  beans  ready?" 

Mrs.  Grow,  who  brought  the  beans,  was  a  tall, 
sandy-haired  woman ;  she  had  apparently  mold- 
ed her  features  on  the  indentations  of  Cape 
Cod.  Yet  they  suggested  vaguely  that  she  had 
once  been  fair.  Jessie  glanced  curiously  at  the 
new-comer  during  the  meal,  but  spoke  little. 
When  she  and  her  mother  had  disappeared, 
Oley  Grow  gave  his  lodger  a  pipe,  and  filled 
one  for  himself. 

"Yes,  my  wife's  a  Cape  girl,"  he  said,  in 
answer  to  a  question.  "I  told  you  I'd  been  a 
castaway.  Well,  it's  nigh  on  to  twenty-two 
year  that  I  was  wrecked  on  the  South 
Shore.  I  come  from  Denmark,  I  did.  No 
Yankee!  But" — here  he  grunted  by  way 
of  vocal  punctuation — "I  married  a  Cape  girl 
and  stayed  here.  Been  one  of  'em  ever 
since." 

"By-the-way — that  old  figure-head  in  the  gar- 
den," his  listener  said.  "How  did  you  come 
by  that?" 

"Part  of  the  wreck — part  of  the  wreck,"  said 


SO  OLEY  GROWS  DAUGHTER. 

Grow  gloomily.  "And  so  am  I.  It's  been 
here  ever  since — like  me:  hey?" 

"Haven't  you  gone  ashore — to  the  mainland, 
I  mean?" 

The  carter  shook  his  head. 

"Then  I  suppose  you're  pretty  well  satisfied 
where  you  are?" 

Grow  shook  his  head  again.  "I  haint  paid 
for  this  house  yet." 

"Not  paid !     In  how  long?" 

"Twenty  year." 

"And  how  much  do  you  owe  still?" 

"Three  hundred  dollars  and  some  interest." 

"Oh,  well,"  declared  the  young  man,  san- 
guinely,  "that'll  soon  be  all  right." 

He  retired  that  night  in  a  reflective  mood, 
full  of  a  dim  romantic  project  too  impulsive  to 
bear  analysis,  but,  for  all  that,  delightful. 

II. 

"What  can  he  be  up  to?"  queried  Aunt 
Deborah  Macy,  when  she  came  down  next 
day  to  talk  over  the  new  lodger. 

"Most  likely  thinkin'  to  fit  out  a  ship,"  said 
Mrs.  Grow,  sheathing  her  knitting-needles  in 


OLEY  GROWS  DAUGHTER.  51 

their  quaintly  carved  case  made  of  a  whale's 
tooth. 

Others  believed  he  was  purchasing  "sheep 
rights"  to  start  a  grazier's  business;  for  in 
those  days  sheep-raising  was  still  a  Nantucket 
industry.  It  was  rarely  that  they  had  an  "off- 
island"  visitor  of  Creese's  type  to  discuss,  and 
the  inhabitants  tried  hard  to  unravel  the 
mystery  about  him.  But  he  kept  his  coun- 
sel, and  the  only  topic  he  showed  interest 
in  was  that  of  Mrs.  Grow's  family  connec- 
tions. 

Instead  of  two  weeks  he  stayed  more  than 
a  month,  and  still  gave  no  sign  of  going.  He 
grew  familiar  with  the  place,  and  loved  to 
wander  about,  looking  at  the  queer,  mossy- 
shingled  dwellings,  the  venerable  windmill  on 
the  outskirts,  and  the  rolling  downs  beyond. 
He  lived  in  the  sea  and  sky — endless  spaces 
of  changeful  water  and  constant  ether,  over- 
hung by  idle  clouds,  or  softening,  sun-illumined 
mists;  and  before  long  Jessie  became  for  him 
the  one  object  on  the  horizon  of  this  dreamy 
demesne.  Her  delicate  color,  bright  hair,  free 
naturalness,  all  accorded  with  the  prevailing 


5 2  OLEY  GROWS  DAUGHTER. 

atmosphere,  and  he  idealized  her  into  a  kind  of 
embodiment  of  it. 

They  went  out  often  together  in  row-boat  or 
sail-boat;  Creese,  who  prided  himself  on  his 
seamanship,  assuming  control.  One  day  they 
rowed  to  the  neighboring  island  of  Tucker- 
nuck — "That's  silly  Indian  for  bread-loaf,"  she 
explained — and  in  coming  back,  as  they  round- 
ed into  the  harbor,  Creese  found  the  tide  so 
forcible  along  the  shore  by  the  "bug  light," 
that  he  could  not  advance. 

"Give  me  the  oars!"  cried  Jessie.  She 
sprang  from  the  stern,  and  he  had  to  surrender. 

With  a  few  strokes  she  carried  the  boat  out 
of  the  current. 

"Bad  place  for  a  man  to  fall  overboard,"  he 
remarked. 

"Don't  you  try  it,  then,"  said  Jessie,  "when 
I'm  not  here  to  help  you."  And  she  laughed 
heartily. 

"I'd  better  not  try  anything  without  you  to 
help  me,"  said  he,  as  they  drifted  back  to  the 
wharf. 

To  this  she  paid  no  attention;  but  when 
they  were  walking  up  the  street  she  asked: 


OLEY  GKOW'S  DAUGHTER.  53 

"What's  your  business,  Mr.  Creese?  Appears 
to  me  you're  caught  here  in  a  dead  calm." 

"Oh  no ;  it's  a  very  live  one,"  he  assured  her. 
"I'm  doing  a  great  deal." 

"How?" 

"Well,  for  one  thing,  I'm  falling  in  love — " 

"Oh!" 

" — With  Nantucket,  you  understand.  But, 
by-the-bye,  I've  something  to  say  to  you  and 
your  father  to-night  about  business." 

"Business?"  she  repeated.  At  that  moment 
a  peculiar  sound  took  Creese's  attention.  It 
was  the  blatant  piping  of  a  tin  horn,  which  pro- 
ceeded from  the  tall  church  steeple  near  them. 

"Who's  gone  crazy  now?"  he  asked,  as  if 
it  were  an  incidental  matter. 

"Oh,  that's  the  crier,  you  see.  He's  sighted 
the  New  Bedford  packet.  I  shouldn't  wonder, 
too,  if  'Lish  Gardiner  was  on  board." 

"Lish  Gardiner?  I  haven't  seen  him  before, 
have  I?" 

"Good  reason,  too,"  said  Jessie  "He's  been 
away  a  year,  on  a  croosse." 

"A  cruise?  What  makes  you  think  he's  on 
the  packet,  then?" 


54  OLEY  GROWS  DAUGHTER. 

"Oh,  I  know  it !"  declared  the  girl,  with  em- 
phasis. 

Maurice  fancied  a  light  of  pleasure  and  ex- 
citement in  her  face ;  though  perhaps  it  was 
only  the  sparkle  which  the  swift  wind  and  the 
salt  air  and  sunlight  might  bring  out.  He  began 
to  be  uneasy.  But  nothing  more  was  heard  of 
'"Lish,"  that  day. 

After  supper  Jessie  turned  eagerly  to 
Creese.  "Well,  what  was  it?"  she  demanded. 

"Oh,  the  business !"  he  responded,  breaking 
off  a  reverie.  "Yes,  yes. — Mr.  Grow,  have  you 
ever  heard  of  Manton  Macy?" 

Oley  pulled  at  his  pipe.  "Yes,"  he  said,  with 
the  mien  of  a  man  not  to  be  daunted  even  by  the 
complexities  of  Nantucket  relationships.  "He 
was  my  wife's  half-brother's  cousin — I  may 
as  well  tell  ye,  second  remove.  I  never  seed 
him,  though ;  Pm  a  castaway,  and  he  lives  off 
into  Boston.  Know  him  yourself?" 

"He's  dead,"  Creese  answered. 

Oley  shifted  his  position  slightly,  and  called 
to  his  wife  in  the  kitchen.  "Hear  that,  Sarah? 
Your  cousin  Manton  is  dead." 

Mrs.  Grow  promptly  appeared. 


OLEY  GROWS  DAUGHTER.  55 

"Well,"  said  she,  thoughtfully,  true  to  the 
instinct  of  an  economical  mind,  "he  can  be 
spared  just  as  well  as  not." 

Tears  came  into  Jessie's  eyes.  "Oh,  father, 
just  think  of  it !"  she  murmured.  "That  poor 
old  man  dead — our  own  cousin,  too !" 

Creese  waited  a  moment,  then  resumed : 
"You  know  Mr.  Macy  was  rich,  Mr.  Grow.  He 
has  left  your  daughter  a  thousand  dollars." 

The  carter  rose  excitedly.  "Sheer  off!"  he 
shouted.  "The  luck's  coming  too  close.  You 
mean  it  true?" 

"Perfectly.  I've  only  been  waiting  for  the 
will  to  be  proved,  and  certain  points  to  be 
cleared  up,  before  telling  you.  This  is  the 
business  that  brought  me  here." 

"Well,  well,"  said  Oley,  correcting  his  man- 
ner by  a  touch  of  melancholy;  "I  didn't  know 
he  had  such  a  good  heart.  If  I  had  'a  knpwn 
it,  I'd  been  sorry  to  have  him  die." 

Jessie  meanwhile  looked  to  her  mother  for 
help;  and  Mrs.  Grow  put  an  arm  around  her, 
as  if  dire  catastrophe  had  befallen  her  child. 

"I'm  a  lawyer,"  Creese  went  on,  "assisting 
to  settle  the  estate.  In  a  few  days  a  check  for 


56  OLEY  GROWS  DAUGHTER. 

the  amount  will  arrive,  and  then  I  shall  have  to 
bid  you  all  good-by.  I  congratulate  you,  Miss 
Jessie,  on  your  good  fortune;  and  you,  Mr. 
Grow ;  for  now  your  daughter  can  liquidate  the 
debt  on  this  house." 

Oley's  eyes  danced  in  spite  of  him.  But 
Jessie,  in  the  bewilderment  of  the  occasion, 
made  no  response  to  this  proposition  of  paying 
the  debt. 

III. 

Early  the  next  morning,  the  "townie"  was 
walking  the  north  beach  in  deep  reverie.  All 
at  once  something  whizzed  through  the  air  near 
him,  and  was  gone. 

"Hullo!"  he  cried  out;  and  raising  his  head 
he  beheld  a  sturdy  islander  with  a  red  beard 
and  gray  shirt,  flinging  into  the  sea  a  line  ter- 
minating in  a  large,  formidable  hook  and  a 
heavy  lead,  which  he  had  just  whirled  reckless- 
ly around  his  own  skull. 

"Hullo !"  said  this  personage  in  reply.  "Who 
are  you?" 

"Oh,"  returned  Creese,  "I'-m  another  fellow; 
that's  all." 


OLEY  GXOWS  DAUGHTER.  57 

"Glad  to  hear  it,"  the  fisherman  answered. 

"Trying  for  bluefish?"     Maurice  asked. 

"Mostly,"  said  the  other.  "They're  such 
damn  Injins,  though,  you  never  can  tell  when 
they'll  bite."  Two  shining  finny  trophies, 
however,  lay  on  the  sand  at  his  feet. 

Creese  passed  on.  At  breakfast  there  were 
two  fresh  bluefish  steaming  on  the  platter.  Oley 
looked  across  at  his  daughter  and  said,  "Lish 
caught  'em  this  morning." 

"So-ho !"  thought  Creese.  But  he  observed 
that  the  name  of  the  mysterious  'Lish  no  longer 
brought  vivacity  to  Jessie's  face. 

It  happened  an  hour  later  that  he  saw  this 
identical  youth  of  the  red  beard  entering  the 
house.  He  himself  was  in  the  garden,  and 
waited  to  learn  what  might  follow.  In  a 
quarter  of  an  hour  'Lish  issued  again,  looking 
strangely  distraught,  and  walked  away. 

The  simple  fact,  which  Maurice  did  not  then 
know,  was  that  the  sailor  had  approached,  full 
of  hope,  to  meet  his  sweetheart  for  the  first 
time  in  a  year.  But  she  received  him  coldly ; 
'Lish  withdrew  in  perplexity ;  and  it  was  not 
until  he  met  Oley,  and  was  hailed  by  him 


58  OLEY  GROWS  DAUGHTER. 

from  his  taffrailed  cart,  that  he  heard  of  the 
legacy.  Then  he  understood  everything. 
"We're  rich  now,  'Lish,"  old  Grow  said,  vain- 
gloriously,  "and  my  house  '11  be  my  own." 

"Ah,  that's  it,"  muttered  the  poor  fellow,  as 
he  fared  home.  "She's  got  some  money ;  so  she 
looks  down  on  me."  And  his  heart  sank  like  a 
lead  heaved  in  thirty  fathoms. 

Only  three  days  after  this,  Creese  made 
ready  to  say  farewell.  But,  on  a  pretext,  he 
got  Jessie  out  into  the  garden,  and  there  began 
talking  with  abrupt  earnestness. 

"Before  I  leave,"  said  he,  "1  want  to  tell  you 
one  thing:  that  is,  I  mean  to  come  back  here." 

"Oh,  how  nice !"  said  Oley  Crow's  daughter 
unaffectedly,  glancing  her  blue  eyes  at  him. 
"When?" 

"That  depends  on  you.  If  you  really  are 
glad,  you  might  give  me  a  good  reason  for 
coming  back." 

"I?"  She  confronted  him  with  eyes  so  wide 
open  and  cheeks  so  pink,  that  she  seemed  to 
have  revealed  herself  then  for  the  first  time. 

"Yes,"  said  Creese.  "I  have  found  in  you 
something  I  never  thought  to  find  here.  Meet- 


OLEY  GKOIV'S  DAUGHTER.  59 

ing  you  has  been  like  coming  upon  some 
beautiful,  perfect  shell  in  the  midst  of  the 
worthless  sand.  That's  what  you  are  to  me, 
Jessie;  do  you  understand?  And  now  I  have 
found  you,  I  want  to  keep  you.  Will  you 
let  me?" 

"I — I  never  heard  any  one  speak  so  before," 
said  the  girl,  faintly,  in  a  tone  of  innocent 
wonder. 

He  took  her  hand.  "Shall  I  come  back  for 
you  in  the  spring?"  he  asked. 

"I  hope  you  will  come,  Mr.  Creese — if  you 
want  to." 

"And  you  will  promise  to  be  my  wife?" 

She  drew  her  hand  away,  and  covered  her 
face.  Then  turning  full  upon  him  again,  she 
nodded  slightly.  "I'll  promise,"  she  said,  and 
the  next  instant  she  darted  away  to  the  house. 

Creese  was  very  happy ;  yet  he  smiled  at  the 
strangeness  of  this  consent.  Left  alone,  he 
stared  at  the  old  figure-head,  thinking  that  it 
might  offer  some  response  to  his  joy.  But  in 
its  half-resemblance  to  Grow  it  appeared  to  op- 
pose him  with  an  inane  sort  of  gloom,  and  he 
retired  in  dissatisfaction. 


60  OLEY  GROWS  DAUGHTER. 

Still,  before  he  left  the  island,  everything 
was  arranged  to  his  Lking.  Jessie  renewed  her 
promise  more  deliberately,  and  it  was  agreed 
that  her  parents  should  not  be  told  of  the  en- 
gagement until  his  return.  "They  will  feel 
badly,"  he  said/'when  I  tell  them  I'm  going  to 
take  you  to  Boston;  so  we  won't  let  them 
know  just  now." 

A  constraint  fell  upon  the  household  after 
he  had  gone,  for  Oley  awaited,  day  by  day, 
some  motion  on  Jessie's  part  to  assist  with  her 
money,  and  she  made  no  motion.  A  certain 
hardness  seemed  to  have  come  over  her,  and 
she  lived  withdrawn  from  her  parents.  In- 
deed, it  was  only  too  clear  that  what  she 
considered  wealth  had  developed  in  her  an 
unlooked-for  pride ;  and  her  father  was  himself 
too  proud  to  assail  this.  He  continued  to  navi- 
gate his  nautical  cart  about  the  quiet  streets ; 
slowly,  patiently,  and  with  a  settled  sadness. 

"What's  the  matter,  pap?"  'Lish  Gardiner 
asked  him  one  day,  halting  him  on  the  road. 
And  little  by  little  Oley  allowed  the  cause 
of  his  silent  grief  to  become  known.  "Jessie's 
ma  she  tried  to  wheedle  her,"  he  added;  "but 


OLEY  GROWS  DAUGHTER.  6 1 

'twa'n't  no  use.  Jessie  she  said  as  the  money's 
hers,  and —  Well,  to-morrow's  interest  day,  and 
I'm  comin'  short  on  my  payment." 

"Never  mind,"  said  'Lish.  "I  suppose  it's  hers 
to  do  with  as  she's  a  mind  to.  I  don't  blame 
Jessie,  pap.  'Taint  for  poor  devils  like  me  to 
judge  her.  I  did  hope —  But  there,  that's  all 
emptied  out  now.  I'm  in  a  corner.  Of  course 
she  don't  want  me,  now  she's  rich.  But  keep 
chirk,  pap,  keep  chirk." 

That  night,  when  the  two  women  had  gone 
to  bed,  'Lish  rapped  at  the  wooden-latched 
door,  and  insisted  on  handing  Oley  a  small  roll 
of  bank-notes.  "That's  what  I  got  for  my  lay 
on  the  croosse,"  he  said.  '"Tain't  much,  for 
they  didn't  treat  me  fair;  but  then  I  guess 
it'll  help  some.  I  meant  it  for  Jess,  but — Now 
don't  you  say  nothin'  to  Jess  about  it."  And 
grasping  the  carter's  hand  in  his  own,  he 
retreated  without  giving  time  for  a  refusal. 

I  am  not  sure  that  something  like  a  stifled 
sob  did  not  mingle  with  his  footsteps,  as  he 
hurried  down  the  sandy  street  in  the  darkness. 
But  old  Grow,  sitting  in  his  chair  alone, 
seemed  to  feel  the  house  that  he  loved,  and 


62  OLEY  GROWS  DAUGHTER. 

had  worked  so  hard  for,  becoming  warm 
around  him  with  the  gratitude  that  filled  his 
heart. 

IV. 

'Lish  went  seldom  to  see  the  Grows,  after 
winter  set  in.  He  had  quietly  abandoned  his 
suit  for  Jessie's  hand,  and  did  not  like  to  meet 
her  on  a  new  basis  of  distance.  During  the 
cold  months  Oley  had  little  employment ;  but 
when  spring  came  he  once  more  mounted  the 
cart  and  resumed  his  plodding.  "How  tired 
and  old  poor  father  looks !"  mused  Jessie,  as 
she  saw  him  start  off.  But  the  resolve  to  keep 
her  money  stifled  pity. 

At  last,  on  a  cool  March  morning,  when  the 
winds,  racing  over  the  Nantucket  downs,  began 
to  wake  the  island  to  life  again,  and  the  chilly 
sunlight  showed  strange  greens  and  purples  in 
the  ruffled  sea,  Creese  re-appeared,  as  naturally 
as  if  he  had  been  a  sea-gull  alighting, 

"Oh,  I'm  glad  you've  come!"  Jessie  gave 
him  greeting.  "I  was  beginning  to  feel  so 
sad — I  don't  know  why." 

"Yes,  the   separation  has  been   trying,"  he 


OLEY   GROWS  DAUGHTER.  63 

confessed.  "But  we  have  had  each  other's  let- 
ters; that  was  one  good  thing."  And  yet,  as 
he  spoke,  a  disheartened,  anxious  feeling  came 
over  him,  for  somehow  Jessie's  letters  had  not 
been  all  that  he  had  wanted  them  to  be. 

Oley  took  the  news  of  the  engagement 
quietly.  "Marry  Jess,  hey?  Well,  she  can 
act  her  pleasure.  Coin'  to  settle  on  the  island, 
then,  be  you?" 

"Oh  no;  she'll  go  with  me,  of  course,  to 
Boston.  I  can't  leave  there." 

OJey  began  to  laugh  incredulously. 

"You'll  never,"  said  he,  "get  Jess  to  live  on 
the  continent.  No,  no,  no.  She's  bound  to 
stay  by  Nantucket ;  you  can't  rub  that  out." 

"But  she  has  agreed  to  go,"  Creese  per- 
sisted, with  a  smile  which  he  thought  rather 
superior  to  the  old  man's  laugh. 

Nevertheless,  a  few  days  developed  in  him 
the  suspicion  that  a  change  which  promised  no 
good  had  taken  place  since  the  summer.  The 
island  looked  dreary,  this  time ;  there  were  no 
flowers ;  the  crude  simplicity  of  life  with  the 
Grows,  instead  of  interesting  him  as  it  had 
done,  grated  on  his  sensibilities.  Moreover,  it 


64  OLEY  GROWS  DAUGHTER. 

struck  him  that  there  was  a  change — slight, 
perhaps,  but  shadowing — in  Jessie's  manner 
toward  him.  Was  it  that  she  repented  her 
promise,  or  that  he  had  invested  her  with 
traits  she  did  not  possess  or  had  partially  lost 
since  the  first  meeting?  He  did  not  know 
from  which  side  the  trouble  came,  but  he 
began  to  be  sensible  that  the  sea  air  and  the 
land  air  did  not  blend  perfectly  in  their  relation. 

In  one  thing  she  differed  from  most  Nan- 
tucket  women ;  she  liked  to  be  on  the  sea,  or 
walking  near  it.  Strolling  along  the  beach 
with  her,  Creese  stopped  beside  the  wasted 
ribs  of  an  old  wreck  buried  in  the  sand. 
"Some  one  else  has  been  down  here,"  he  ob- 
served, lazily.  "See  those  foot-prints.  The 
boots  that  made  them  have  gone  around  the 
point." 

While  they  were  contemplating  these  marks 
the  boots  returned  from  behind  the  low  hill, 
bringing  with  them  the  stalwart  figure  of  'Lish. 
Seeing  the  two,  he  stopped  in  some  confu- 
sion, and  said :  "I  wasthinkin'  to  myself  I  must 
come  up  and  see  your  folks,  Jessie.  I'm  goin' 
away  again." 


OLEY  GROWS  DAUGHTER.  65 

The  girl  caught  her  breath,  Creese  thought. 
"So  soon,  'Lish!" 

"Late  or  soon,  it's  about  the  same,"  said  the 
sailor,  fixing  his  eye  on  the  wreck's  hollow  ribs 
as  if  he  wished  they  were  his  own.  '"Tain't 
much  use  my  lying  around  here." 

"When  do  you  sail?"  asked  Creese,  attempt- 
ing the  cheerfully  benevolent. 

'Lish's  manner  became  on  the  instant  fierce. 
"In  a  fortnight,"  he  growled,  and  at  once 
strode  away  toward  the  town. 

"'Lish  don't  mean  to  be  rough,"  said  Jessie, 
impulsively.  "I  know  he  don't." 

Her  lover  made  no  reply,  but  began  to  talk 
of  their  plans.  Jessie  however,  hardly  listened 
to  him.  "What's  the  matter?"  he  asked  at 
length. 

"I  don't  know.     I'm  sad  again  to-day." 

"Your  father  thinks  you  won't  want  to  leave 
the  island.  Is  that  it?" 

"N — no,  I  don't  believe  it  is." 

"What,  then?  Are  you  thinking  about 
'Lish?" 

Jessie  looked  at  him  gravely.  "Yes,  I'm 
sorry  for  'Lish,"  she  said. 


66  OLEY  GROWS  DAUGHTER. 

"Are  you  so  much  interested  in  him?"  asked 
Creese,  frowning. 

Her  pensiveness  vanished.  "Why,  it's  'Lish 
that's  interested  in  me,"  she  explained,  with  a 
laugh.  "How  you  do  turn  things  round !" 

But  Creese  was  not  contented.  They  went 
home  in  silence,  and  he  left  her  at  the  door. 
On  crossing  the  threshold  she  met  Oley,  to 
whom  she  imparted  what  'Lish  had  told  her. 
He  at  first  looked  calm,  but  speedily  con- 
cluded to  be  violent.  "I  know  what  it  means," 
he  declared.  "The  boy  '11  never  come  back 
again ;  and  it's  all  you !"  He  grew  red  with 
the  effort  to  suppress  what  he  wanted  to  say ; 
then  burst  out :  "Do  you  know — you,  girl — 
what  he  did  while  you  were  hugging  your  dol- 
lars? He  came  here  and — "  So  the  old  man 
went  on  until  he  had  disclosed  'Lish's  clandes- 
tine generosity. 

"Oh,  father!"  Jessie  moaned,  struck  with 
contrition.  "How  wicked  I've  been!" 

"Yes,  you  have,"  retorted  Oley,  immitigably. 
"And  I  wish  I'd  never  been  cast  away,  and 
then  you  wouldn't  'a  been  born."  Having  said 
which,  he  made  haste  to  leave  her,  with  a 


OLEY  GROWS  DAUGHTER.  67 

smarting  at  his  eyes,  and  a  conviction  in  his 
heart  that  he  was  very  glad  Jessie  had  been 
born,  after  all. 

"I'm  not  fit  to  live,"  she  told  herself,  bit. 
terly,  creeping  out  to  the  desolate  garden.  "I've 
been  so  proud  and  mean,  and  done  wrong  to 
everybody.  And  I  see  it  all  now.  I  wouldn't 
even  have  hearkened  to  Mr.  Creese  if  I  hadn't 
thought  myself  so  fine.  Oh,  I  can't — I  can't 
marry  him!  And  how  am  I  to  tell  him?" 
She  twisted  her  hands  together  in  distress, 
while  she  made  this  confession  aloud,  to  the 
passive  figure-head,  through  a  mist  of  tears. 

Then,  finding  no  relief,  she  bethought  her  of 
a  desperate  measure.  There  was  the  sea — the 
sea  that  she  loved,  and  that  would  not  re- 
proach her.  She  would  go  and  throw  herself 
into  it,  and  her  father,  who  wished  she  had  not 
been  born,  would  be  glad  to  have  her  die. 

She  unlatched  the  back  gate,  and  sped 
across  the  salt  meadow  straight  for  that  place 
where  she  knew  the  tide  would  be  running  out 
most  strongly,  so  intent  on  her  purpose  that 
she  was  unaware  of  some  one  watching  her, 
and  did  not  even  notice  the  gathering  clouds 


68  OLEY  GROIV'S  DAUGHTER. 

and  fierce  gusts  of  a  rising  storm.  But  as  she 
neared  the  shore  a  sight  met  her  eye  which 
compelled  notice.  The  harbor  bar  was  white 
with  a  cataract  of  foam.  Even  the  waves  in- 
side were  high,  and  out  amongst  them  was 
a  cat-boat  which  the  squall  had  just  struck.  It 
spun  half  around,  lurched,  and  filled.  Jessie 
saw  that  it  must  sink,  and  at  the  same  instant 
she  thought  she  could  recognize  in  the  man 
on  board,  who  was  preparing  to  leap  out,  her 
accepted  lover,  Creese. 

There  was  a  small  boat  on  the  sands  by  the 
bug-light,  and  she  determined  to  attempt  his 
rescue.  Casting  one  mechanical  glance  about 
her  for  aid  which  appeared  impossible,  she 
saw  a  man  running  toward  her  and  hallooing. 
It  was  'Lish,  who  was  bringing  another  pair  of 
oars. 

No  time  was  lost.  They  both  got  in,  and 
rowed  together  with  the  tide  toward  the  place 
where  the  sail  had  already  gone  down. 

"Yes,  I  knew  'twas  he,"  said  'Lish,  while 
they  were  pulling.  "Saw  him  go  out.  None 
but  a  townie  'd  ha'  done  it  in  the  face  o'  that 
sky." 


OLEY  GROWS  DAUGHTER.  69 

They  had  almost  reached  the  dark  spot  of 
head  in  a  hollow  of  the  waves,  when  it  sank. 
It  had  gone  down  only  for  the  first  time,  how- 
ever, and  when  it  rose  Creese  was  hauled  vigor- 
ously into  the  boat.  He  had  fainted,  and  his 
eyes  stayed  shut.  While  Jessie  was  trying  to 
revive  him,  'Lish  said,  quietly: 

"I  was  passing  by  the  garden  then,  Jess,  and 
stopped  ahint  the  bushes  when  I  saw  you.  I 
heard  what  you  said  out  loud  there." 

Jessie  was  betrayed  into  one  look  that 
showed  him  she  might  yet  pardon  this  offense. 
Then,  "Oh  dear,"  she  said,  "do  you  suppose 
Mr.  Creese'll  come  to?  I  want  to  tell  him 
something."  As  soon  as  he  revived  she  began. 
"Are  you  all  right?"  she  asked.  Creese  smiled 
a  faint  affirmative,  and  she  went  on  impet- 
uously: "I  must  say  it,  Mr.  Creese.  I  can't 
many  you — really  I  can't.  I'm  so  sorry,  but 
it  was  all  a  mistake,  and  I'm  very  wicked.  Will 
you  forgive  me?  Don't  you  think  you  might?" 

He  smiled  again,  with  something  of  amuse- 
ment in  spite  of  his  feebleness.  "Only  get  me 
ashore,"  he  said,  "and  I'll  forgive  every — "  At 
this  point  he  shut  his  eyes  once  more. 


7<»  OLEY  GROWS  DAUGHTER. 

When  he  had  quite  recovered,  and  had 
heard  all  she  had  to  say,  "I  see  now,"  he 
agreed,  "that  it  would  have  been  impossible." 

"Yes,"  said  Jessie,  "the  wind  can't  blow  two 
ways  at  once." 

"I  did  something  for  you,  at  any  rate,"  he 
continued,  "in  bringing  you  that  legacy;  and 
now  you've  saved  me  from  drowning." 

"'Twas  'Lish  did  it,"  she  declared. 

"I  don't  know  how  I  can  reward  'Lish," 
said  Creese,  with  commendable  lightness. 
"But  you  might  do  it  for  me,  by  marrying 
him." 

He  was  ready  to  take  his  departure  by  the 
next  packet,  and  as  he  stepped  on  board  he 
said  to  Oley : 

"I'm  glad  to  hear  from  your  daughter  that 
she  has  paid  off  the  mortgage,  and  I  hope  she 
won't  be  too  lonely  while  her  husband  is  on 
his  voyage." 

"Oh,  he  aint  going  far  this  time,"  said 
Oley,  lifting  his  whip  with  a  commanding 
sweep  worthy  of  Neptune's  trident.  "It's  only 
in  our  own  Atlantic  Ocean! " 


CAPTAIN  BILLY. 


I. 

A  BIG  man  was  Billy  Rust — "Captain 
Billy."  His  build  resembled  that  of  a 
freighting  schooner,  and  if  you  saw  him  from 
the  front,  his  broad  chest,  standing  boldly  out 
in  strong  muscular  development,  suggested  the 
prow  of  such  a  vessel  bearing  down  upon  you 
in  a  rather  threatening  way.  But  he  seldom 
really  threatened,  and  he  was  not  inclined  to 
pick  quarrels.  He  had  an  accommodating 
roominess  of  temper  that  made  him  seem  to 
be  always  living  out  of  doors ;  and  the  weather 
in  that  atmosphere  was  exhilarating  even  when 
rough.  For  a  time  he  followed  the  diver's 
trade.  Once,  being  engaged  in  some  subma- 
rine work  which  required  pushing,  he  arranged 
— since  he  was  at  some  distance  from  home — 
to  have  a  special  messenger  sent  by  boat  to 
give  him  the  earliest  notice  of  a  certain  impor- 
71 


72  CAPTAIN  BILLY. 

tant  event  which  there  was  reason  to  expect 
would  occur.  When  the  messenger  arrived 
the  captain  was  under  water.  The  workmen 
above  signaled  to  him,  he  responded  through 
the  signal  cord,  and  was  slowly  hoisted  to  the 
air.  The  helmet  of  his  diving-suit  was  un- 
screwed for  him,  and  the  first  word  he  uttered 
on  being  released  was  "Well?" 

"Good  news!"  said  the  messenger.  "It's  a 
boy.  He  was  born  this  morning." 

There  was  a  momentary  silence.  Captain 
Billy  looked  down  at  the  stone  platform  on 
which  he  was  standing.  Had  it  not  been  for 
the  grotesque  appearance  imparted  by  his 
swollen  diving-suit,  one  might  have  thought 
he  was  struggling  with  a  new  emotion;  but 
the  struggle,  if  there  was  one,  was  stifled 
under  that  weight  of  hard  rubber.  Presently 
he  looked  up  again:  "How's  the  mother?" 

"Doin*  first  rate,"  was  the  reply. 

"All  right !"  shouted  Captain  Billy,  in  lusty 
accents.  "  Lower  away,  boys."  So,  with  his 
helmet  made  fast  again,  he  disappeared 
beneath  the  waves. 

And    yet    some    people    called    him    hard- 


CAPTAIN  BILLY.  73 

hearted.  But  had  he  not  made  a  great  effort, 
in  his  way,  to  meet  the  occasion?  He  enter- 
tained, you  observe,  peculiar  notions  of  duty 
and  was  prompt  in  making  up  his  mind  as  to 
where  his  own  duty  lay. 

This  incident  happened  a  number  of  years 
ago.  The  son,  whose  advent  he  received  in  so 
Spartan  a  manner,  grew  up  into  a  sturdy 
young  fellow,  and  acquired  a  knowledge  of 
the  waters  along  the  Atlantic  seaboard  which 
delighted  his  father's  heart.  Captain  Rust 
was  good  to  the  boy  and  to  his  mother.  The 
baby  was  launched  upon  the  sea  of  life  with  a 
name  which,  it  is  true,  was  somewhat  top- 
heavy,  for  they  christened  him  Alonzo,  but 
this  was  promptly  cut  down  to  "Lon."  How 
often  his  father  carried  him  in  his  massive 
arms,  flinging  him  up  toward  the  sky  and  then 
plunging  him  downward  again  as  if  to  initiate 
him  into  submarine  mysteries!  What  pangs 
did  he  not  gladly  undergo,  when  the  little  fel- 
low, crowing  with  pleasure,  laid  hold  of  his 
parent's  thick  beard  and  pulled  at  it  as  vigor- 
ously as  if  it  had  been  the  main  sheet  of  a  sail! 

No  wonder  that,  after  a  long  experience  in 


74  CAPTAIN  BILLY. 

exercises  of  this  kind,  "Lon"  should  feel  at 
home  when  rocking  on  the  billows  or  handling 
nautical  cordage.  While  he  was  yet  a  lad  he 
began  to  make  trips  on  coasting  vessels ;  later 
he  served  an  apprenticeship  on  a  New  York 
harbor-tug,  and  finally  he  rose  to  employment 
on  a  pleasure-yacht. 

Nevertheless — must  it  be  admitted? — Cap- 
tain Billy  was  not  entirely  satisfied  with  his 
son.  He  fancied  that  there  was  something 
effeminate  about  the  young  man.  The  dread- 
ful suspicion  had  entered  his  mind  that  "Lon" 
was  allured  by  the  knowledge  that  there  were 
other  classes  of  society  than  that  into  which 
he  had  been  born  and  that  he  was  disposed  to 
ally  himself  with  those  classes  which  were 
commonly  called  "upper."  In  a  word,  Cap- 
tain Rust  feared  that  his  son  might  be 
willing,  if  opportunity  offered,  to  merge  his 
sterling  identity  in  the  vague,  neutral  com- 
monplace of  "superior"  people. 

Now,  Lon  had  been  brought  up  to  believe 
that  "all  men  are  free  and  equal,"  nor  had  it 
ever  been  pointed  out  to  him  that  the  free- 
dom and  equality  referred  only  to  questions  of 


CAPTAIN  B2LLY.  75 

political  and  property  rights.  As  a  natural 
consequence,  he  believed  that  the  sons  and 
daughters  of  all  men  were  free  to  make  choice 
of  one  another  as  companions,  without  tram- 
mel. He  had  no  idea  that  it  could  be  a 
descent  from  his  high  standing  as  a  seaman  on 
a  pleasure-yacht  that  he  should  fall  in  love 
with  the  daughter  of  the  man  who  owned  the 
yacht. 

Hence,  quite  inadvertently,  he  fell  in  love 
with  her — poor,  innocent  fellow! 

It  was  on  board  the  Ripple,  in  which  Mr. 
Meadows,  a  wealthy  contractor  and  engineer, 
was  making  a  trip  through  the  Sound  to  New- 
port, Nantucket,  the  Beverly  Shore,  Mount 
Desert.  Evelyn,  his  daughter,  was  with  him, 
and  one  of  their  guests  was  young  Beeny,  son 
and  sole  heir  of  the  great  cotton  speculator. 
Now,  Beeny  appeared  to  be  much  interested 
in  Miss  Evelyn,  and  for  this  reason,  but  for  no 
other,  Lon  was  interested  in  Beeny.  Keep- 
ing a  keen  watch  on  their  graceful,  subdued 
flirtation,  his  first  clear  knowledge  of  his  own 
sentiment  came  from  seeing  the  slender  Beeny 
help  Evelyn  over  the  side  one  day  when  they 


7<5  CAPTAIN  BILLY. 

were  entering  the  yawl  to  make  a  landing. 
The  young  man  held  her  hand  in  his,  at  the 
same  time  lifting  a  parasol  to  protect  her  from 
the  sun.  Was  it  mere  fancy,  or  did  Lon  guess 
aright  that  the  speculator's  son  bent  the  parasol 
down  a  little  so  as  to  conceal  his  action,  while 
he  raised  the  clasped  hand  close  to  his  lips? 

A  shock  of  jealousy  ran  through  him,  and  I 
can  imagine  that  his  gray-blue  eyes  flashed 
with  a  fiery  spark.  Beeny  did  not  have  it  all 
his  own  way  after  that ;  for,  standing  on  the  for- 
ward deck,  Evelyn  often  talked  with  the  sailor 
lad,  first  about  the  boat  and  rigging,  the  winds 
and  sky ;  afterward  about  other  things,  such  as 
his  father,  himself  and  his  adventures. 

"Why,  he's  not  a  bit  like  a  common  sailor!" 
she  exclaimed,  speaking  to  her  father. 

"No,  dear,"  said  Meadows.  "  You  don't  sup- 
pose I'd  hire  common  men  on  the  Ripple\  Lon 
is  a  very  good  boy —  a  sort  of  toy  mariner. 
That's  the  kind  I  like." 

Evelyn  did  not  seem  entirely  pleased. 
"  How  silly,  papa!  You  know  that  isn't  so. 
Lon  is  perfectly  real ;  and  he's  so  bright  and — 
and — humorous ;  and  he  has  read  a  good  many 


CAPTAIN  BILLY.  77 

books — a  whole  bunkful,  he  said.     I  think  it's 
we  who  are  the  toys." 

In  short,  he  became  a  favorite  with  Evelyn. 
She  liked  his  handsome  presence,  the  fine, 
steady  color  in  his  cheeks,  his  frank,  original  re- 
marks, and  his  simple  deference  toward  herself. 
It  resulted  that  he  was  often  detailed  to  attend 
her  and  carry  messages  for  her  when  the  yacht- 
Ing  party  were  ashore.  Is  it  supposable  that 
all  this  time  he  was  unaware  of  the  "gulf" 
which,  in  the  dialect  of  romances,  "yawned 
between  them  "  ?  Most  likely  he  saw  it  with 
some  distinctness,  but  it  makes  a  good  deal  of 
difference  which  side  of  a  gulf  you  are  standing 
on.  Lon  was  so  eager  to  cross  this  chasm  that 
it  did  not  seem  very  wide.  Besides,  he  had 
won  his  own  position  by  hard  work,  and  he 
considered  it  much  closer  to  that  of  Mr.  Mead- 
ows than  Mr.  Meadows  would  have  thought  it. 
But,  then,  as  to  Beeny?  The  youth  obviously 
possessed  some  puzzling,  unreasonable  advant- 
age over  him.  It  seemed,  though,  to  arise 
only  from  his  having  more  money  and  being 
used  to  society — mere  accidents,  which  had 
nothing  to  do  with  deep  affection. 


7 8  CAPTAIN  BILLY. 

The  golden  days  of  summer  idleness  were 
melting  away  into  receding  distances  as  the 
Ripple  bore  homeward,  and  Lon  felt  that  with 
those  days  Evelyn,  too,  was  slipping  away 
from  him.  It  was  here  that  he  faced  a  practi- 
cal difficulty.  How  to  speak  to  her?  how  see 
her  alone?  When  she  talked  with  him  on 
deck  some  one  else  was  sure  to  be  not  far  off — 
one  of  the  other  sailors,  or  stalwart  Meadows 
with  his  newly-bronzed  cheeks  and  branching 
mustache,  or  little  Beeny  with  his  intrusive 
eye-glass.  He  could  not  seek  her  out. 
Discipline  and  social  laws  made  him,  in- 
stead of  free  to  act  like  a  man,  as  helpless 
as  a  woman  waiting  for  her  lover  to  offer 
himself. 

An  accident  favored  him.  The  night  before 
they  made  Whitestone,  where  Meadows  and 
his  guests  were  finally  to  leave  the  yacht,  he 
had  taken  the  wheel  for  the  second  watch. 
Evelyn,  at  a  late  hour  when  all  the  rest  had 
gone  to  bed,  finding  herself  wakeful,  came  up 
from  the  cabin  to  get  some  air.  The  night  was 
clear  and  starry ;  the  water  rolled  away  from 
the  yacht  in  low  undulations  that  were  lost  in 


CAPTAIN  BILLY.  79 

a  noiseless  vista,  where  they  seemed  to  touch 
the  shores  of  dreamland. 

"Oh,  it's  you,"  said  Evelyn,  recognizing  him 
in  the  faint  light. 

"Yes,  Miss  Meadows."  Lon  was  secretly  re- 
joiced by  the  tone  of  calm  approval  with  which 
she  had  noticed  him. 

She  walked  a  few  moments  along  the  deck, 
then  came  back  and  seated  herself  on  a  camp- 
chair  near  by.  "How  fast  we  go!"  she  said, 
gazing  at  the  whitish  water  that  swelled  and 
fell  away  behind  the  stern ;  "I  shall  be  almost 
sorry  when  this  is  over." 

"So  shall  I,"  Lon  responded,  as  heartily  as 
if  it  was  "Ay,  Ay,"  to  a  command. 

"Why,  Lon?"  (  It  was  the  custom  to  use  his 
first  name.)  "You  can  go  on  sailing  and  sailing 
always,  can't  you?" 

"Not  on  this  boat,  Miss  Meadows." 

"Why  not?  Surely  you — you  haven't  had 
any  trouble  with  my  father?" 

"Oh,  no."  He  looked  very  steadily  at  the 
binnacle,  whence  the  lamp-flame  glowing  above 
the  compass  streamed  out,  suffusing  his  face 
with  rosiness  that  might  have  been  taken  for  a 


8o  CAPTAIN  BILLY, 

sudden  blush.  "No;  but  I  think  I'd  like  to 
get  married !" 

"Oh!"  said  Evelyn,  startled  by  so  unex- 
pected a  confidence,  and,  after  a  pause,  "Well, 
I'm  glad  it's  only  that.  Papa  can  engage  you 
next  summer,  just  the  same." 

"No,  I'll  not  come  back.  My  father  's  pilot 
on  a  ferry  in  East  River.  I'll  go  and  work  with 
him,  I  guess."  Lon  waited  an  instant  before 
adding:  "Maybe  I  won't  see  any  of  you  again." 

His  voice  betrayed  his  hidden  grief,  and 
Evelyn  was  perplexed. 

"That's  a  pity,"  she  said  slowly.  "  I 
thought  you  were  always  going  to  be  on  the 
Ripple." 

She  was  greatly  disappointed.  Her  ideal 
sailor  was  to  be  taken  away  from  her,  and  she 
could  almost  have  cried.  She  understood  now 
what  it  was  to  lose  him  as  a  "toy."  And, 
strangely  enough,  this  idea  of  his  marrying, 
instead  of  pleasing  her  as  a  pretty  romance, 
had  almost  a  depressing  effect.  "I  do  wish,"  she 
declared,  girlishly,  "that  people  wouldn't 
always  be  marrying !" 

"Don't  you  think  a  sailor  like  me  has  a  right 


CAPTAIN  BILLY.  8 1 

to  marry?"  asked  Lon,  more  roguishly,  recov- 
ering spirit. 

"Oh,  I  suppose  so,"  she  admitted,  reluct- 
antly, "if  he  really  loves  some  one  enough," 

"And  wouldn't  you  marry  a  sailor  if — if—- 
well, the  same?" 

Evelyn  started  up.  "What  do  you  mean? 
Don't  you  know  that  you  have  no  right  to  ask 
me  such  things?  Please  remember  that  you 
are  only  one  of  papa's  men." 

Lon,  still  at  the  wheel,  stood  more  erect. 
"I  am  my  own  man,"  he  said  firmly.  "And  I 
know  I  have  one  right — to  say  what  I  feel. 
Don't  take  offense  at  my  way  if  it  ain't  the 
best.  Miss  Meadows,  I — "  But  here  he 
stopped.  However  slight  the  barriers  of  class 
and  position  might  be,  he  found  that  the  bar- 
rier between  a  man  and  woman,  when  passion 
is  to  be  aroused,  remains  formidable.  Still  he 
rallied  his  courage  with  a  great  effort.  "It's  you 
I  want  to  marry,  Miss  Meadows.  I  love  you !" 

She  withdrew  hurriedly  a  few  steps,  putting 
her  hands  up  to  her  face.  "Oh,  this  is  dread- 
ful," she  murmured. 

It    occurred  to  her   that    she    ought  to  be 


82  CAPTAIN  BILLY. 

severe;  but  how  was  she  to  do  it?  Should  she 
say:  "I'll  tell  my  father"?  Should  she  address 
Lon  haughtily  as  "Mr.  Rust"?  No;  that 
would  be  absurd.  She  might,  then,  retire  into 
the  cabin  without  a  word,  and  ignore  every- 
thing. But  while  she  was  considering  her 
course,  he  spoke  again. 

"You  needn't  be  afraid,"  he  said  gently,  but 
with  some  bitterness.  "I  can't  come  after  you. 
My  hands  are  tied.  I  am  bound  to  this  wheel 
here." 

How  true  in  another  sense!  He  was  bound 
to  it  as  to  a  wheel  of  torture.  Captain  Billy's 
son,  like  the  captain  himself,  knew  his  duty 
and  stuck  to  it. 

This  impressed  Evelyn  as  a  curiosity — a 
lover  who  could  not  leave  his  post  even  to  foL 
low  up  his  suit.  Moreover,  it  was  rather  pa- 
thetic.  She  felt  sorry  for  him.  Advancing 
some  paces,  she  contemplated  him  earnestly, 
while  he  remained  holding  on  to  the  spokes  of 
the  small  wheel,  glancing  at  the  compass  and 
anon  making  the  circle  revolve  a  few  inches. 
Presently  she  came  up  and  almost  touched  it 
with  her  hand. 


CAPTAIN  BILLY.  83 

"Oh,  you  foolish  Lon !  Can't  you  see  that, 
because  I  liked  you  as  a  sailor,  it  was  not  a 
good  reason  for  your  having  such  thoughts?" 

The  brave  young  steersman  literally  quiv- 
ered under  the  restraint  of  his  position ;  but 
lifting  his  eyes  he  said,  as  steadily  as  he  could : 
"I  haven't  got  any  thoughts,  Miss  Meadows; 
I  only  love  you !  I  love  you  twice  over.  I've 
done  fairly  well  for  a  poor  man,  but  if  I  only 
knew  you  cared  about  me,  I'd  make  my  way 
further.  I'd  work  like  a  dog.  I'd  do  anything 
for  you." 

A  new  idea  struck  Evelyn.  She  asked : 
"Would  you  leave  this  wheel  now — for  me?" 

"I  couldn't  do  that,"  he  answered,  shaking 
his  head.  "It  would  be  shirking." 

Somehow  his  reply  unnerved  her.  She 
could  not  be  cruel  to  him.  His  fidelity  and 
simplicity  touched  her;  and  then  he  had 
spoken  with  such  earnest  warmth,  such  abso- 
lute devotion.  What  was  that  strange,  rush- 
ing sound  in  her  ears?  Was  it  only  the  warn- 
ing whisper  of  the  water  speeding  by  the 
yacht?  It  grew  louder  and  louder.  Could  it 
be  that  it  came  from  the  tumult  in  her  own 


84  CAPTAIN  BILLY. 

heart?  There  was  something  so  manly,  so 
convincing  about  this  honest  young  sailor,  that 
she  trembled ;  trembled  for  fear  that,  after  all, 
she  might  love  him.  And  now  she  spoke 
softly : 

"I  am  sorry.  Don't  say  anything  more  to 
me !  But  I  don't  wish  you  to  feel  badly.  Oh, 
if  I  could  have  guessed  such  a  thing,  I  never 
would  have  come  out  here !  There ;  you  may 
take  my  hand — once ;  though  it's  only  to  say 
good-by  to  you.  It  is  useless  to  think  of  such 
a  thing,  you  know;  but  you  may  write  to  me 
and  say  how  you  are  getting  on.  And,  oh! 
your  father — you  have  told  me  so  much  about 
him.  I  should  like  some  day  to  see  him. 
Good-by." 

So  she  was  gone.  What  had  she  done? 
She  could  not  sleep  again  that  night  for  think- 
ing of  what  had  happened ;  whether  she  had 
not  been  too  lenient,  and  whether  there  were 
not  some  sentiment  in  her  heart  that  she  dared 
not  confess.  Lon,  for  his  part,  felt  the  blood 
burning  in  his  veins;  partly  with  shame  and 
mortification,  so  that  he  was  ready  to  jump 
into  the  sea;  partly  with  ecstatic  triumph, 


CAPTAIN  BILLY.  85 

because  he  had  revealed  his  love.  The  stars 
shone  whitely,  the  waves  murmured,  the  sails 
hung  like  huge  specters  above  him ;  the  boat 
appeared  to  fly  with  redoubled  speed,  and  to 
him,  watching  there,  as  to  Evelyn,  lying  wake- 
ful in  her  stateroom,  that  brief  scene  which 
had  just  passed  came  back  like  a  momentary, 
incoherent  vision. 

II. 

THE  next  night,  having  quitted  the  service 
of  Mr.  Meadows,  Lon  reached  his  father's 
house,  a  small  wooden  dwelling  on  the  out- 
skirts of  Brooklyn.  In  one  of  the  windows 
there  was  a  green  shade,  and  in  the  other  a 
red  one,  so  that  the  light  from  behind  made 
them  look  like  the  larboard  and  starboard  lan- 
terns of  a  ship,  and  gave  the  place  a  familiar, 
home-like  air.  The  captain  greeted  his  son 
with  gruff  cordiality,  but  it  was  not  long 
before  he  discovered  that  something  had 
gone  wrong,  Lon  was  so  cast  down.  In  a  few 
days  the  young  man  made  full  confession  to 
him. 

"Now,    look    here,    Lonzo,"     said    Captain 


86  CAPTAIN  BILLY. 

Billy — he  always  said  "Lonzo"  when  he 
wanted  to  be  severe — "you'd  better  steer  clear 
o'  them  kind  o'  craft.  If  you  don't,  you'll 
have  a  collision,  and  then,  first  thing  you 
know,  down  you  go !" 

But  the  son  was  not  to  be  dissuaded.  The 
more  he  reflected,  the  surer  he  was  that  Eve- 
lyn's last  words  in  their  strange  interview  con- 
tained a  germ  of  hope  for  him  ;  and  he  obtained 
sympathy  from  his  mother.  She  was  a  plain, 
placid  woman  whose  fixity  of  expression  bore 
living  witness  to  the  artistic  truth  shown  in 
the  carving  of  figureheads;  but  she  had  what 
figureheads  do  not  possess — a  tender  heart — 
and  she  steadily  sustained  Lon  against  the 
captain's  frequent  grumblings.  Captain  Billy, 
however,  was  confirmed  in  his  opinion  that 
Lon  would  "go  down,"  by  the  way  in  which 
Lon  began  to  lag  around  and  neglect  work. 
Sometimes  he  accompanied  his  father  on  the 
ferry-boat  and  sometimes  he  talked  of  getting 
employment,  but  more  often  he  was  mysteri- 
ously absent  and  declined  to  give  any  account 
of  himself  on  returning. 

Evelyn  might  have  explained  some  of  these 


CAPTAIN  BILLY.  87 

absences.  She  received  a  letter  from  her 
sailor,  to  which  she  at  first  gave  no  heed ;  but 
one  day,  on  a  visit  to  a  friend  at  Staten  Island, 
she  went  out  to  practice  archery  by  herself. 
Just  as  she  had  bent  the  bow  and  sent  an 
arrow  flying,  a  figure  in  blue  appeared  at  the 
edge  of  a  thicket  behind  the  target.  Evelyn 
uttered  a  cry  of  fright. 

"Did  I  hit  you?" 

"No,"  answered  Lon,  coming  forward.  "I 
was  wounded  before,  that  night  on  the  Ripple" 

She  consented  to  talk  with  him.  He  offered 
to  pick  up  the  arrows  for  her  while  she  shot; 
and  in  the  end  she  agreed  to  meet  him  again. 
This  circumstance  solves  the  mystery  of  a  cer- 
tain inexplicable  catboat  tacking  on  and  off 
near  that  spot,  some  days  later,  and  of  a  vailed 
woman  who,  coming  down  to  the  shore,  was 
taken  out  for  a  sail  past  Bergen.  They  met 
often  after  that  at  various  places;  there  was 
no  longer  any  concealment  between  them  of 
their  love,  but  it  had  to  be  secreted  from 
every  one  else,  and  each  time  that  Evelyn  saw 
him  she  resolved  that  it  should  be  the  last. 

Who  would  have  suspected,  seeing  her  calm 


88  CAPTAIN  BILLY. 

womanly  face,  with  a  sweet  severity  about  the 
innocent  eyebrows,  that  she  carried  such  a 
great  anxiety  in  her  heart?  In  due  time 
young  Beeny  piped  out  in  a  thin  voice  the 
proposal  of  marriage  which  he  had  long  been 
meditating;  but  she  refused  it  with  facile  com- 
posure. The  men  whom  she  met  in  society 
were  no  more  to  her,  now,  than  so  many  black- 
coated  silhouettes.  Lon  was  her  one  reality ; 
and  yet  what  was  she  to  do  with  him?  where 
would  it  all  end?  No  hope  was  discernible, 
unless  by  elopement ;  and  from  that  she  still 
shrank.  But  every  night  she  lay  awake  a 
long  while,  and  often  she  would  listen  to  the 
mournful  notes  of  the  steamer- whistles  on  the 
river,  blending  in  a  wild  harmony  of  discord 
while  the  vast  city  was  sunk  in  slumber.  She 
knew  that  Lon  frequently  took  his  place  on  one 
of  the  boats  at  night  as  an  assistant  pilot ;  and 
these  prolonged  tones,  calling  through  the 
darkness  over  the  roofs  and  streets,  were  like 
a  distant  hail  from  him — a  sorrowful  voice  of 
separation  and  struggle. 

Meanwhile,  day  by  day,  Captain  Billy  went 
on  conducting  the  ferry-boat  to  and  fro,  eight 


CAPTAIN  BILLY.  89 

hours  out  of  each  twenty-four;  silent,  diligent, 
unnnoticed,  unknown.  Thousands  of  people 
were  borne  from  bank  to  bank  without  ever 
thinking  of  his  existence.  It  never  crossed 
their  minds  that  over  and  over  again  he  saved 
them  from  some  imminent  peril  in  that  short 
and  seemingly  safe  transit.  The  great  white 
boat  moved  like  a  gigantic  swan  across  the 
greenish  flood,  or,  in  times  of  fog  and  snow> 
like  a  ghostly  bark  freighted  with  beings  who 
might  have  been  fancied  to  be  floating  as  dis- 
embodied spirits  on  the  strait  between  life  and 
death.  Captain  Billy,  up  on  top,  knew  all 
about  the  hair-breadth  escapes,  but  performed 
his  function  without  noise.  The  world  be- 
neath the  waves  was  as  familiar  to  him  as  the 
world  above,  and  in  a  quiet  way  he  felt  that  he 
was  master  of  both.  But  as  he  knew  what 
grim  things  underlie  the  surface,  you  can  imag- 
ine that  he  did  not  care  much  for  superficial 
show,  or  greatly  value  "social  position."  In 
fact,  he  distrusted  them. 

He  had  been  lecturing  Lon  about  these 
things  as  they  came  down  to  the  half-past  n 
relief  on  a  cold  day  of  early  December. 


9<>  CAPTAIN  BILLY. 

"Lonzo,  strikes  me  you  ain't  got  any  bone 
left,  or  gristle  either!  You're  pinin*  after  that 
gal,  and  you  go  mewin'  round  like  a  puss-cat 
waitin'  for  some  one  to  take  you  up  and  coddle 
you  in  her  lap,  side  of  the  fire.  If  you're  set 
on't  that  you  want  to  marry  her  you  ought  to 
shin  'round  and  make  a  pile  o'  money.  But 
when  you  made  it,  t'wouldn't  be  worth  much. 
What's  it  good  for  with  them  folks,  except  to 
throw  away?  You'd  ought  to  stand  by  your 
own  kind ;  not  let  yourself  down  to  that  sort  o' 
folks.  Splice  yourself  with  my  old  mate's  gal, 
— Jim  Ryerson's  gal!  I'm  ashamed  of  you, 
Lonzo.  You  was  a  baby  once" — the  cap- 
tain's voice  softened  a  bit.  "But  I  don't  like 
to  have  you  a  baby  now !"  he  ended,  vocifer- 
ously. 

Lon  made  no  retort,  but  he  was  very  sulky 
when  they  went  on  board  and  mounted  to  the 
wheel-house.  Other  ferry-boats  were  seen 
plowing  to  and  fro,  like  huge  shuttles  cast 
back  and  forth,  weaving  together  the  strands 
of  life  that  connect  New  York  and  Brooklyn. 
The  weather  was  bright  but  freezing ;  cakes  of 
ice  were  jostling  and  jouncing  about  in  the 


CAPTAIN  BILLY.  91 

river,  going  seaward.      Otherwise,    everything 
was  as  usual. 

In  the  ferry-house,  too,  everything  was  as 
usual.  There  was  the  huge,  dreary  waiting- 
room  walled  with  glass  windows,  its  bare  floor 
gritty  with  dust  from  many  feet.  There  in 
the  middle  of  the  floor,  with  its  misleading  air 
of  riotous  luxury,  was  the  bronze-gilt  fountain 
that  never  plays,  and  across  the  room  could  be 
seen  the  soda  fountain  that  plays  perennially 
above  the  bloom  of  apples  and  the  waste  des- 
ert of  tinted  popcorn.  Cloaked  and  hooded 
men  and  women  came  in,  miserable,  transitory, 
and  expectant,  as  they  always  are  at  ferries. 
A  pale  3'oung  man  with  Christian  Association 
side-whiskers  stood  by  the  door  ostentatiously 
opening  letters  and  reading  them  with  im- 
mense importance.  A  man  with  an  artificial 
leg  busied  himself  by  walking  to  and  fro,  while 
the  people  with  natural  legs  carefully  sat  down 
on  the  bare,  iron  partitioned  benches.  His 
spurious  limb  at  every  step  sprang  up,  gave  a 
sideward  shake,  and  flopped  down  methodically 
on  the  planks,  its  owner  bowing  his  head  and 
regarding  the  performance  with  grave  atten- 


92  CAPTAIN  BILLY. 

tion.  At  the  last  moment  Evelyn  entered, 
dressed  in  simple  braided  black,  with  a  blue 
veil  over  her  face  and  a  blue  scarf  crossed  on 
her  bosom.  She  was  coming  home  from  an 
early  call  in  Brooklyn.  She  knew  that  this 
was  Lon's  ferry,  but  she  had  made  no  appoint- 
ment with  him ;  and  he  was  not  aware  that  she 
was  to  cross  at  that  hour. 

III. 

THE  boat  started  serenely.  There  was  noth- 
ing remarkable  in  her  progress  until  she  had 
gone  a  third  of  her  way.  Then  the  bell  from 
the  pilot-house  rang  for  her  to  slow  down  so 
as  to  permit  the  passage  of  a  tug  with  a  heavy 
barge  in  tow.  The  engine  was  stopped  and 
she  lay  waiting.  The  tug  passed  safely,  but 
was  hindered  by  the  blocks  of  ice  some  dis- 
tance down ;  her  line  to  the  tow  slackened,  and 
before  Captain  Billy  had  time  to  reverse  the 
engine,  the  barge — caught  in  an  eddy — veered 
toward  the  ferry-boat  and  crashed  into  her. 

Now  the  steamer  was  of  the  old-fashioned 
build,  without  compartments,  and  Captain 


CAPTAIN  BILLY.  93 

Billy  knew  that  unless  the  leak  could  be 
stanched  she  must  sink.  He  ran  for  the  stairs 
to  go  below,  and  Lon  was  at  his  heels.  They 
plunged  into  the  hold  nearly  together.  Hasty 
efforts  had  been  made  by  the  engineer  and  the 
rest  of  the  men  on  the  lower  deck  to  close  up 
the  break,  with  boxes,  matting,  and  whatever 
lay  at  hand;  but  they  could  not  collect  enough 
stuff  to  block  the  opening.  A  narrow  space 
in  the  midst  of  the  improvised  barriers  re- 
mained vacant,  and  unless  that  could  be  filled 
every  soul  on  the  boat  was  doomed. 

Captain  Billy  threw  himself  impetuously  into 
the  gap  among  the  torn  and  jagged  timbers. 
His  broad,  burly  figure  filled  it  completely  and 
he  held  the  greedy  river  back.  But,  unfortu- 
nately, he  had  thrust  his  right  arm  out  of  the 
opening. 

"Dad !  oh,  dad !  Get  out  of  here.  Let  me 
take  your  place.  Get  out,  I  say." 

So  rang  Lon's  cry,  and  Lon  took  hold  of  his 
father  to  wrench  him  away. 

Captain  Billy  answered : 

"Lon,  you  fool!  Don't  you  see  we're  safe? 
I  can't  get  out  of  here  without  letting  her  sink. 


94  CAPTAIN  BILLY. 

Take  the  wheel,  Lon.  You  know  how.  Don't 
let  her  drift.  Run  her  into  dock !" 

All  this  while  he  was  shaking  off  his  son's 
grasp.  Lon  fell  back,  overpowered. 

"I'll  take  her  in!"  he  cried,  all  afire. 

"Right,"  gasped  his  father,  "I  was  mistaken, 
Lon.  You're  not  a  baby.  You're  a  man!" 

Lon  flew  up  the  steps,  and  regained  the 
pilot-house.  He  took  the  wheel.  By  this 
time  the  tug  had  freed  herself  and  was  out  of 
the  way  with  her  tow.  Lon  started  the 
engine,  and  with  steady  hand  and  eye  alert 
guided  the  heavy  ferry-boat  up  stream  into  her 
course,  then  across  and  then  downward  with 
the  swing  of  the  tide,  adroitly,  accurately,  into 
her  landing-place.  The  bell  rang  to  slow; 
again  to  reverse;  once  more  to  unhook;  then 
to  go  forward  by  hand ;  finally  to  stop.  The 
boat  was  docked  as  by  the  skill  of  a  master. 
But  while  all  this  was  proceeding,  Lon's  nerves 
tingled  with  the  most  horrible  shudders,  be- 
cause he  knew  that  his  father  was  down  there 
in  the  gap,  stemming  the  death-cold  water 
with  his  own  body. 

A  carpenter  had   come,  with  some    boards 


CAPTAIN  BILLY.  95 

gathered  at  haphazard  and  some  oakum.  Cap- 
tain Billy  surrendered  his  post  to  the  carpen- 
ter, and  was  carried  up  the  engine-room  stairs 
faint,  half-frozen,  with  his  right  arm  lacerated 
and  bleeding  from  contact  with  the  floating 
ice.  But,  once  on  his  feet,  he  refused  aid,  and 
walked  nonchalantly  toward  the  office.  The 
rumor  of  his  bravery  had  preceded  him,  and 
an  agent  of  the  ferry  company  met  him  at  the 
door. 

"Captain  Rust,"  said  the  agent  blandly  ex- 
panding with  a  noble  sentiment,  "you  have 
behaved  like  a  hero!  The  company  will  ap- 
preciate your  services,  and  on  their  behalf  I 
will  hand  you  in  a  minute  or  two  a  hundred 
dollars." 

With  his  left  arm  still  intact,  Captain  Billy 
waved  the  agent  imperiously  aside.  "Hun- 
dred dollars!  What  do  I  want  of  that? 
D'you  think  I  cared  anything  for  your  rotten 
old  boat?  She  might  have  sunk  for  all  me,  if 
it  hadn't  been  for  the  women  and  babies  on 
board !  I  don't  take  money  pay  for  what  any 
man  ought  to  do." 

And    thereupon  he    strode  forth    into    the 


9$  CAPTAIN  BILLY.} 

street,  blazing  with  indignation  and  followed 
by  Lon.  He  had  his  right  arm  dressed  and 
bandaged ;  and  he  formed  a  resolution ;  which 
was,  to  resign  his  place  as  pilot. 

Meadows  heard  from  his  daughter,  that 
evening,  the  story  of  the  accident  and  the  fort- 
unate escape.  But  restless  reporters  had 
learned  of  the  affair,  and  the  next  morning  all 
the  particulars  were  given  in  the  papers. 

"By  Jove !"  cried  Meadows,  not  recalling  at 
once  the  name  of  his  former  sailor  as  being  the 
same  as  the  captain's ;  "what  a  noble  fellow  that 
pilot  was!  I  must  hunt  him  up,  Evelyn,  and 
see  if  I  can  help  him  somehow.  Why,  he 
saved  your  life !"  The  contractor  almost  gave 
way  at  the  thought  that,  but  for  Captain 
Billy,  he  might  have  been  sitting  alone  at  his 
breakfast-table,  the  light  of  his  life  gone  out 
and  his  lovely  child,  Evelyn,  dead.  "If  I 
could  meet  that  man  I'd  do  anything  under 
heaven  for  him !"  he  exclaimed. 

Evelyn  responded  with  enthusiasm,  but  she 
was  very  pale,  and  her  expression  was  inscru- 
table. 

Meadows  had  not   been  long  in  his  office 


CAPTAIN  BILLY.  97 

down  town,  when  Captain  Billy  Rust  walked  in 
and  said  that  he  had  come  to  answer  an  adver- 
tisement for  an  assistant  in  some  submarine 
building  work  on  the  seashore.  The  captain 
stated  his  qualifications,  and  said  that  he  was 
experienced.  Meadows  cross-examined  him 
severely  and  decided  to  engage  him. 

"Ah — what  is  your  name?"  he  asked  sternly, 
like  a  man  whose  function  it  was  to  catalogue 
the  human  race. 

"Captain  Rust,  sir — William  A.  Rust." 

Meadows  sprang  to  his  feet.  Handsome, 
tall,  with  long,  high-boned  cheeks  and  a  wav- 
ing mustache,  the  ferocity  of  which  concealed 
the  real  good-fellowship  of  his  nature,  he 
looked  at  this  juncture  the  very  embodiment 
of  hearty  kindness.  "Captain  Rust!"  he 
cried.  "Then  you  are  the  man  who  saved  my 
daughter's  life  yesterday  on  the  ferry !" 

"I  don't  know  anything  about  your  daugh- 
ter's life,"  said  Captain  Billy. 

"My  dear  fellow,"  said  Meadows,  "I'm  glad 
to  see  you !  I  had  it  in  mind  to  find  you  to- 
day. What  can  I  do  for  you?  Consider  your 
self  engaged  by  me  from  this  moment.  But 


98  CAPTAIN  BILLY. 

isn't  there  something  else  I  can  do  to  show  my 
gratitude?" 

"No,  sir,"  said  Captain  Billy.  "I  ain't  asking 
for  any  gratitude." 

Meadows  knew  enough  to  pause  at  that 
point.  But  it  was  only  a  few  days  before  Cap- 
tain Billy  was  informed  by  his  son  that  the 
girl  with  whom  he  was  in  love  was  Miss 
Evelyn  Meadows. 

"Look  here,"  said  he  to  Meadows  soon  after, 
"you  asked  me  if  there  was  anything  you  could 
do.  I  don't  want  nothing  for  myself,  but  I 
hear  that  my  boy  Lon  wants  to  marry  your 
Evelyn.  I  dont  believe  in  't,  I'm  free  to  say. 
Howsomever,  if  they're  both  willin',  suppose 
we  fix  it  up." 

Meadows's  philanthropy  vanished  on  the 
instant.  "My  daughter  marry  your  son!"  he 
shrieked,  his  fierce  mustache  gaining  a  mo- 
nopoly of  his  genial  features.  "You  must  be 
crazy!" 

"No,  /  aint  crazy,"  said  Captain  Billy,  "but 
I  guess  Lon  is.  I'm  goin'  to  stand  by  him, 
though." 

A  violent  outburst  ensued  from   Meadows, 


CAPTAIN  BILLY.  99 

but  Captain  Billy  remained  quiet,  and  the  ques- 
tion was  postponed.  Meadows  conferred  with 
Evelyn. 

"This  is  all  very  nice,"  he  said,  "up  to  a  cer- 
tain point.  But  it  was  the  captain  who  saved 
your  life,  not  Lon.  You  can't  marry  the  cap- 
tain, you  know,  because  he  has  a  wife  already, 
and  has  had  for  a  good  while." 

"Like  father,  like  son,"  Evelyn  answered, 
twisting  the  proverb :  "/  like  the  son.1' 

So,  much  against  the  will  of  both  Meadows- 
and  Captain  Billy,  the  union  of  the  two  young 
people  was  at  length  brought  about.  Captain 
Billy  consented  to  waive  the  dignity  of  his 
class,  and  Mr.  Meadows  meekly  surrendered 
the  privileges  of  the  wealthy  order. 

And  the  ferry-boats  went  on,  like  shuttles 
thrown  from  side  to  side,  weaving  and  weaving 
the  web  that  unites  two  cities  and  mingles 
people  of  all  classes  together.  And  it  trans- 
pired that  Lon,  who  took  service  in  the  work 
which  his  father  and  Mr.  Meadows  had  in 
hand,  was  a  very  efficient  man  of  business  and 
became  the  mainstay  of  Mr.  Meadows  in  his 
office;  while  Captain  Billy — now  master  of  a 


ioo  CAPTAIN  BILLY. 

tug  of  his  own — had  all  he  could  do  in  superin- 
tending the  recovery  of  submerged  vessels,  or 
walking  at  will  all  over  the  bottom  of  the 
Sound  in  his  elephantine  diving-suit,  to  locate 
the  position  of  lost  ships  and  cargoes. 

Long  afterward  I  met  Captain  Billy  and 
asked  him  about  these  occurrences. 

"Oh  yes,"  he  said,  "I  remember.  Darned 
fool  I  was  to  keep  my  arm  outside  and  get 
it  smashed!  Might  just  as  well  have  held  it 
inside."  On  being  pressed  for  particulars  he 
referred  to  his  old  log-book,  always  punctil- 
iously written  up,  though  not  required  by  any 
authority. 

"Le'  me  see,"  said  Captain  Billy,  turning  the 
pages.  "Here  it  is!  December  7,  left  Brook- 
lyn 12  M.  Struck  by  barge.  Went  down 
below  and  stopped  leak" 

That  was  all. 


MRS.  WINTERROWD'S  MUSICALE. 


iTTHO'S  Mrs.  Winterrowd?" 
W 


There  is  a  question  that  shocks  me 
as  I  write  it  down.  Nevertheless,  it  is  what  my 
friend  McAloon  (who  had  the  misfortune  to  be 
graduated  from  a  Western  college)  asked  me, 
when  I  told  him  we  had  an  invitation  to  her 
musical  affair  of  Wednesday  evening,  Jan- 
uary 1  8. 

Of  course  nobody  else  needs  to  be  told 
about  her;  but  I  had  to  explain  to  McAloon 
that  Mrs.  Winterrowd,  though  not  herself 
famous,  knew  many  famous  people,  and  that, 
although  she  was  not  the  mother  of  her  great- 
grandfather, nor  in  any  way  responsible  for 
him,  she  had  done  the  best  she  could  for  that 
gentleman  and  for  herself  by  being  descended 
from  him,  and  was  fully  aware  of  her  merito- 
rious conduct.  He,  you  remember,  was  no 
other  than  General  Killamy  Matchett,  an  early 
commander  of  the  Valiant  Horse  Fencibles 


102       MRS.    WINTERROWD'S  MUSICALS. 

(one  of  the  first  military  troops  formed  in  the 
province  of  the  Massachusetts),  who  won  great 
distinction  by  having  predicted  the  revolt  of 
the  colonies,  and  then  dying  comfortably  at 
home  before  the  outbreak  of  hostilities.  Mrs. 
Winterrowd  has,  among  other  heirlooms,  Gen- 
eral Killamy's  sword,  with  which  he  would 
probably  have  slain  many  British  oppressors 
had  he  lived. 

The  Matchetts  were  very  good  at  inherit- 
ing or  marrying  property.  They  were  distin- 
guished, and  it  took  all  their  time  and  energy 
to  supply  the  distinction ;  therefore  those  who 
married  them  had  to  furnish  the  funds.  Mrs. 
Winterrowd's  husband  is  descended  from  a 
fine  old  typical  Boston  merchant,  and  is 
wealthy,  of  course. 

When  I  had  finished  enlightening  poor  Mc- 
Aloon  on  these  points,  "I  feel  a  great  deal 
better,"  he  announced ;  "for,  however  insignifi- 
cant I  myself  may  be,  I  am  now  sure  that  there 
is  somebody  in  the  world  for  whom  it  is  worth 
while  that  it  should  go  on.  But  will  you  ex- 
plain why  it  is  called  a  musicale  instead  of  a 
music  party,  or  simply  a  musical?" 


MRS.    WINTERROWD'S  MUSICALS.        103 

"That  is  Mrs.  Winterrowd's  style,  my  dear 
fellow,"  said  I.  "Don't  you  appreciate  it?  It 
is  like  the  mark  of  nobility  implied  in  saying 
\nv3ilide,  instead  of  invalid.  That  single  letter 
e  added  to  the  word  musical  marks  all  the 
difference  between  your  hopeless  Western 
crudity  and  the  refinement  of  centuries." 

"I  see,"  said  my  friend,  meekly;  and  I  think 
he  was  prepared,  after  that,  for  the  felicity  in 
store  for  him. 

When  the  evening  arrived,  we  repaired  to 
the  dignified  mansion  on  Commonwealth 
Avenue  iffTere  this  delightful  party  was  to 
take  place.  One_  of  the  very  first  persons  I 

"*3BW^t_-  ^ *^ff 

met  in  the  drawfflpffcoms  was  Sophia  Morne,  a 
very  lovely  girl  of  great  attractiveness,  whom  I 
had  promised  my  companion  much  pleasure  in 
seeing.  She  is  a  little  white,  but  not  enough 
so  to  detract  from  her  peculiar  beauty,  like 
that  of  an  old  portrait,  always  young.  Her 
dress  also  Avas  white,  with  many  clever  Hues 
breaking  up  the  surface,  and  giving  a  chance 
for  artistic  trimming,  puffs,  folds,  and  soft 
shadows.  Her  hair  is  unlike  almost  anything 
I  have  ever  seen  in  others ;  being  brown,  yet 


104  M£S    WINTERROWD'S  MUSIC  ALE. 

with  a  kind  of  brightness  about  it  that  makes 
it  look  as  if  some  beam  of  light  were  playing 
upon  it,  and  just  about  to  vary  its  hue  a  trifle. 
She  wore  it  drawn  up  from  the  forehead  that 
evening,  and  at  the  lower  tips  of  her  ears  you 
saw  the  gleam  of  very  small  topaz  gems.  All 
this  added  power  to  the  sweet,  thoughtful 
eyes,  the  plaintive  repose  of  her  mouth,  and 
the  grace  of  those  delicate  cheeks  which  I 
never  can  help  fancying  are  made  thin  by 
some  unknown  sadness,  until  I  see  her  smile; 
and  then  the  notion  takes  flight. 

I  wonder  what  Planetsure,  the  eminent 
scientist,  thought  of  her  as  he  stood  there  talk- 
ing to  her,  with  his  hands,  like  relics  of  the 
Stone  Age,  tightly  clasped  across  the  very 
recent  deposit  of  dress-coat  that  covered  his 
back?  The  two  were  very  deep  in  some  severe 
discussion ;  but  Miss  Morne  bowed  to  me.  I 
confess  I  should  have  been  unhappy  if  she  had 
not  done  so. 

Our  hostess,  to  whom  we  had  said  good- 
evening,  passed  me  just  then,  bearing  Mc- 
Aloon  to  the  large  room  at  the  rear,  where 
the  two  pianos  stood.  I  soon  saw  that  she 


MRS.    WINTERROWD'S  MUSIC  ALE.        105 

was  going  to  present  him  to  Miss  Fetters,  the 
brilliant  authoress,  whose  books  one  ought  not 
to  read  without  standing  on  glass  bottles,  to 
lessen  the  electric  shock.  Turning  away  rap- 
idly to  avoid  watching  him  in  his  perilous  posi- 
tion, I  came  upon  the  Reverend  Griswold 
Porbeck,  with  his  mild  smile  and  arrogant, 
spectacled  upper  face.  In  fact,  the  apart- 
ments were  filled  with  people  intellectually, 
socially,  or  otherwise  notable.  Then  here  was 
Mrs.  Orton  West,  at  whose  house  the  meetings 
of  the  Knotty  Point  Club  are  held,  and  Miss 
Truesdale,  secretary  of  the  Women  Engineers' 
Society;  Leverett,  who  published  a  poem  of 
eight  lines  in  one  of  the  magazines  last 
autumn,  and  has  been  so  lionized  by  the  ladies 
ever  since  that  he  is  afraid  to  print  anything 
more;  also  that  charming  Miss  Mignon  Stan- 
low,  the  heiress,  who  looks  so  exquisite  in  her 
half-mourning.  Here  too  was  Miss  Yarrow, 
the  poet's  daughter,  who  scanned  all  the 
young  men  as  if  they  were  very  imperfect 
rhymes  for  her — all  except  Jim  Torringford, 
who  has  grown  a  British  beard,  and  has 
become  a  most  insufferable  snob,  since  leaving 


io6         MRS.    WINTERROWPS  MUSICALE. 

college.  But  even  there,  I  remember,  we  used 
to  call  him  "the  Bull  pup,"  because  of  his  trot- 
ting after  English  models  so  subserviently.  It 
is  not  likely  that  all  these  people  really  knew 
or  cared  much  about  music,  but  they  wished  it 
to  be  understood  that  they  did. 

Suddenly  there  was  a  stir.  Messrs.  Rail  and 
Tando  (two  professionals,  who,  distinguished 
as  they  are,  were  nevertheless  immensely  flat- 
tered at  being  invited  to  perform  here)  were 
seen  seated  at  the  upright  pianos  like  leaders 
of  hostile  forces  in  the  transient  hush  before 
battle.  They  were  about  to  begin  a  duet. 
With  a  blind  crash  the  attack  opened.  Their 
fingers  plunged  into  the  keys  in  a  truly  awful 
manner,  as  if  they  were  imbruing  their  hands 
in  human  blood.  They  glared,  almost  snorted, 
dug  at  the  ivory,  and — as  the  pianos  were 
placed  back  to  back — seemed  to  threaten 
plowing  their  way  straight  through  the  rose- 
wood breastwork,  and  engaging  in  combat  at 
short  range.  When  Rail  flung  his  head  back 
in  an  agony  of  feeling,  Tando  leaned  forward 
over  his  key-board  with  eager  exultation. 
And  when  Tando  bade  fair  to  have  everything 


MRS.    WINTERROWD'S  MUSICALS.        107 

his  own  way,  and  was  sweeping  the  field  with 
a  succession  of  stormy  martial  chords,  Rail 
watched  his  opportunity  and  pounced  down 
with  a  sharp  volley  of  high  notes  which  com- 
pletely routed  his  opponent. 

When  peace  had  been  restored,  I  got  Mac 
away  from  Miss  Fetters,  and  presented  him  to 
Sophia  Morne. 

"And  you  are  very  musical  in  Cincinnati, 
too?"  she  half  queried,  while  her  topaz  ear- 
rings gave  a  quick  flash  with  the  swift  turn  of 
her  head.  "They  even  say  that  you  are  carry- 
ing off  the  honors  in  that  way  now  from  Bos- 
ton and  New  York." 

"I  see  that  they  have  hardly  convinced  you, 
at  any  rate,  Miss  Morne,"  said  he,  noticing  the 
doubt  in  her  voice. 

"I  don't  know;  I've  never  been  there.  I've 
heard  a  great  deal  about  it,  though,  from  some 
friends.  And  I  should  so  like,"  she  recom- 
menced, with  unforeseen  enthusiasm,  "to  see 
Cincin — " 

"Should  you?"  inquired  my  friend,  at  once 
eagerly  responsive,  leaning  forward  impuls- 
ively. 


108       MRS.    WINTERROWD'S  MUSICALS. 

"I — I  think  so  at  times,"  Sophia  answered, 
all  at  once  eying  him  a  little  more  distantly. 

"You  are  fond  of  music,"  he  resumed,  in  a 
rapid,  perfunctory  tone.  "What  did  you  think 
of  the  duet?" 

Sophia  said,  candidly  and  with  a  little  smile, 
"I  don't  like  it." 

Hereupon  McAloon  and  I  confessed  the 
same.  I  saw  that  these  two  people  would 
soon  come  to  a  good  understanding,  and 
never  before  that  moment  had  I  been  fully 
aware  how  handsome  my  young  Westerner 
was. 

The  situation  must  have  impressed  Mrs. 
Winterrowd,  too ;  for  had  she  not  her  niece 
Bertha  staying  with  her,  for  whom  a  brilliant 
match  was  but  a  natural  destiny?  She  came 
up  and  interrupted. 

"Miss  Morne  is  a  veritable  protestant  in 
musical  matters,"  she  began.  "She  is  always 
trying  to  reform  us ;  she  will  never  give  up  to 
the  orthodox  opinion  if  she  can  help  it.  I 
remember  you  were  firmly  opposed  to  Von 
Billow,"  she  added,  turning  to  the  charming 
culprit. 


MRS.    WINTERROWD'S  MUSIC  ALE.        109 

My  friend's  eyes  lighted  again.  "And  you 
prefer  Rubinstein?"  he  asked. 

Miss  Morne  was  not  afraid  to  give  a  quiet 
assent. 

Then  began  the  usual  patter  about  Joseffy, 
Marie  Krebs,  Von  Hammer,  Van  Pummel, 
and  the  rest,  which  I  have  myself  been 
through  so  many  times.  I  escaped  to  the 
neighborhood  of  Miss  Stanlow,  observing  at 
the  same  time  that  Bertha  Matchett  had 
moved  nearer  the  group,  with  a  friend.  In  a 
moment  or  two  more  her  aunt,  accidentally 
discovering  her,  had  entrapped  McAloon. 

"What  an  unfortunate  name?"  exclaimed 
Miss  Stanlow,  when  I  mentioned  it  to  her. 

I  was  surprised  to  find  that  the  remark  gave 
me  an  unaccountable  comfort,  although  I  had 
not  known  till  that  instant  that  I  stood  in 
need  of  any.  Could  it  be  that  I  was  the  least 
particle  jealous  of  Mac? 

"Ah,  Miss  Stanlow,"  I  half  sighed  to  the 
graceful  creature  at  my  elbow,  "why  are  we 
forever  talking  about  something  and  professing 
to  care  for  something  that  is  really  of  secondary 
moment?  Don't  you  get  dreadfully  tired  of  it?" 


no       MRS.    WINTERROWD'S  MUSIC  ALE.  ' 

"I'll  tell  you  the  exact  truth,"  said  she.  "I 
get  tired  of  almost  everything  except  the 
Diagonal." 

I  laughed,  and  yet  I  believed  her. 

"I  hope  you  include  your  partner,"  I  con- 
tinued. "The  last  time  I  danced  the  Diagonal 
was  with  you  at  Mrs.  Shaw  Stevenson's.  Don't 
you  remember?" 

Was  it  more  than  ordinary  intention  that 
caused  Miss  Stanlow  to  answer,  with  a  full, 
dark  glance,  "I  have  not  forgotten,  Mr.  Endi- 
cott"?  There  is  a  species  of  subtle  under- 
standing between  two  good  waltzers  who  are 
in  the  habit  of  dancing  together,  unlike  any 
other  rapport.  It  may  lead  to  further  sympa- 
thies, or  it  may  remain  always  exactly  the 
same.  For  a  moment  I  fancied  this  pleasant 
waltz  sentiment  of  ours  might  be  budding  into 
something  else.  (And  why  not?  Mignon  had 
money  enough  for  us  both.) 

"Ah,  now  we  are  to  have  the  quartette,"  I 
heard  her  saying  in  the  midst  of  my  transient 
reverie. 

The  quartette  had  the  effect  of  waking 
everybody  up.  All  the  distinctively  musical 


MRS.    WINTERROWD'S  MUSICALS.        HI 

people  got  together  in  groups  and  held  ani- 
mated confabulations.  The  words  "opus," 
"sequence,"  "high  color,"  "polyphony,"  "shad- 
ing," and  the  like,  echoed  on  every  side;  and 
young  Stiles  went  about  telling  all  the  people 
he  hadn't  said  it  to  before,  how  exploded  the 
Beethoven  mania  was. 

"One  of  the  new  interpretative  composers," 
Miss  Stanlow  murmured  to  me,  with  her  half- 
cynical  smile,  "ought  to  write  a  'Conversa- 
tion Symphony/  descriptive  of  musical  criti- 
cism in  a  drawing-room,  translating  it  into 
sound — " 

"And  fury,"     I  threw  in. 

"Signifying  nothing?"  queried  my  com- 
panion. 

At  this  point,  however,  we  went  down  to 
supper.  Mac  had  succeeded  in  getting  back 
to  Sophia  Morne,  whom  he  took  down,  and 
Miss  Stanlow  and  I,  coming  behind,  could  hear 
them  conversing  in  a  tone  of  agreeable  inti- 
macy, which  I  didn't  altogether  relish. 

"No,"  he  was  saying,  "I  quite  agree  with 
you  that  this  is  not  the  pleasantest  way  to  lis- 
ten to  music.  One  needs  a  little  more  soli- 


112        MRS.    WINTERROWD'S  MUSICALS. 

tude.  In  fact,  a  single  sympathetic  companion 
is  enough.  Don't  you  think  so?" 

"I'm  not  sure,"  was  the  answer.  "But  at 
least  that  shows  you  don't  demand  a  great 
deal." 

"It's  well  to  be  moderate,"  he  laughed, 
quietly.  "Still,  what  I  ask  for  is  not  so  easily 
found." 

The  supper  was  superb,  and  the  Reverend 
Porbeck,  warmed  with  secular  wine,  enter- 
tained a  select  group  by  descanting  on  Greek 
music  and  old  Church  anthems  (his  favorite 
theme  at  these  parties,  while  Rail  and  Tando 
cooled  their  jangling  passions  in  plates  of  ice- 
cream. Then  we  went  upstairs  again,  and 
had  some  more  music.  Last  of  all  on  the  pro- 
gramme came  Virgin,  our  new  composer — a 
most  lovable  fellow,  though  sad  and  ill 
from  his  long  struggle  with  popular  indiffer- 
ence. 

"God  pity  a  genius  like  Virgin,"  exclaimed 
McAloon,  as  we  walked  home,  "if  he  has  to 
wait  for  recognition  from  that  whimsical 
circle !" 

"Then   you   didn't    enjoy  the  party?"  I  in- 


MRS.    WINTERROWD'S  MUSICALS.        113 

ferred.      "Why    not?     Tell     me     what     you 
thought  of  the  people." 

"Well,"  said  he,  restraining  his  usual  impetuos- 
ity, "they  were  almost  enthusiastic,after  supper." 

"Go  on,"  I  urged  him.  "But  at  least  you'll 
admit  they  were  critical." 

"Frankly,"  he  replied,  "I  thought  the  com- 
pany made  a  merit  of  their  apathy ;  and  when 
they  at  last  began  to  feel  and  enjoy  to  a  slight 
extent,  they  flattered  themselves  they  were 
giving  discriminating  praise.  Poor  Virgin !  I 
wish  he'd  go  out  to  Cincinnati  with  me.  I 
wouldn't  like  to  be  in  his  shoes." 

"By  the  way,"  I  asked,  "don't  you  compose 
at  all?" 

"Hardly." 

I  forgot  to  mention,  before,  that  Mac  was 
himself  a  pianist  of  great  endowments;  the 
most  brilliant  amateur  I  think  I  ever  heard ; 
but  he  had  forbidden  me  to  let  the  fact  loose 
upon  Boston. 

We  were  crossing  the  bridge  over  the  swan 
pond  in  the  Public  Garden,  when  he  burst  out, 
a  good  deal  as  if  he  were  striking  a  full  chord 
on  the  piano : 


114       MRS.    WINTERROWD'S  MUSICALE. 

"Great  Heaven !  that  girl's  eyes  were  worth 
all  the  melodies  I  ever  heard." 

I  was  not  perfectly  ingenuous,  I  suppose,  in 
asking,  "Whose?— Bertha  Matchett's?" 

"No;  Miss  Morne's.  You  haven't  said  a 
word  about  her  since  we  left  Mrs.  Winter- 
rowd's,"  continued  my  emotional  comrade, 
almost  with  petulance.  "Can  you  see,  think, 
and  feel,  and  yet  keep  silence  about  such  a 
dream  of  a  woman?  Do  you  do  this  and  pro- 
fess to  be  alive?" 

"I  profess,  but  I  hope  I'm  not  really  alive," 
said  I,  "for  in  that  case  I'm  a  mistake  not 
easily  repaired." 

"That's  your  Boston  way  of  keeping  your 
sentiments  to  yourself,  I  suppose,"  he  retorted. 
"But  tell  me  something  about  Miss  Morne, 
can't  you?" 

I  assured  Mac  that  she  was  of  excellent 
family,  but  that  "family"  had  nearly  been  her 
father's  ruin.  His  father  had  suddenly  lost 
his  money,  and  the  younger  Morne  had  had  an 
opportunity  to  go  to  the  West  at  a  very  favor- 
able time,  and  enter  the  pork-packing  business. 
But  his  relatives  had  all  opposed  it,  on  the 


MRS.    WINTERROWD'S  MUSIC  ALE.        115 

ground  that  poverty  and  the  scraps  of  a  social 
prestige  in  Boston  were  infinitely  preferable  to 
seeking  a  new  fortune  in  so  questionable  a 
field. 

"What  business  were  the  Mornes  in?"  asked 
McAloon,  rather  gravely. 

"It  used  to  be  called  groceries,  but  on 
Morne's  account  we  now  call  it,  in  a  general 
way,  'importing.'  " 

"Oh!" 

"He's  doing  better  at  this  time  than  he 
has  heretofore,"  I  went  on.  "He  took  the  ad- 
vice of  his  relatives,  and  has  spent  his  whole 
life  and  strength  trying  to  cling  to  the  edge  of 
fashionable  society.  I  think  it's  been  a  hard 
position  for  his  daughter;  but  she  has  been 
well  treated." 

He  soon  saw  her  again.  I  took  him  to  call 
at  the  house  some  days  later.  He  didn't  seem 
to  mind  in  the  least  that  the  white  paint  of  the 
old  street  door  was  blistered  all  over  by  age 
into  a  fine  crackle ;  nor  that  Sophia's  father 
was  a  shallow  old  gentleman  in  an  emaciated 
coat,  who  wore  a  mildly  alarmed  expression,  as 
if  forever  fearing  that  somebody  would  remem- 


n6       MRS.    WINTERROWD'S  MUSICALS. 

her  that  one  wrong  impulse  of  his  youth,  and 
would  get  the  impression  that  he  had  gone 
into  pork-packing  after  all. 

Very  soon  Mac  began  to  have  ideas  that 
conflicted  with  mine  about  the  disposition  of 
our  evenings,  and  it  ended  in  his  going  his 
way,  and  my  going  mine.  Of  course  I  knew 
what  this  meant.  Meanwhile  I  was  fortunate 
enough  to  have  another  delightful  evening  of 
waltzing  with  Miss  Stanlow. 

Mac  pretended  (so  I  thought)  to  be  very 
much  occupied  with  some  business  ventures. 
He  was  continually  running  down  to  Devon- 
shire Street,  and  looking  for  the  latest  reports 
of  sales  in  the  papers.  It  was  hardly  possible 
that  these  interests  should  absorb  his  even- 
ings; but  one  night  when  he  gave  me  to 
understand  he  was  going  to  talk  things  over 
with  his  broker  at  the  Tremont  House,  I  saun- 
tered out  toward  Bowdoin  Street,  with  some 
intention  of  calling  on  Miss  Morne. 

As  I  came  near  the  house  I  paused.  Then 
suddenly  from  within  some  penetrating  notes 
of  a  piano  rolled  forth.  No,  not  "rolled ;"  I 
ought  to  say  stalked,  for  they  came  like  ghosts 


MRS.    WINTERROWD'S  MUSICALS.        "7 

to  me.  I  felt  my  friend's  hand  in  the  touch. 
He  seemed  to  be  working  with  those  sounds  a 
spell  of  warning  and  disaster  against  me. 
Oddly  enough,  I  felt  it  impossible  to  seek  ad- 
mittance at  the  old  crackle  door  after  this. 

"An  unfortunate  name,"  Miss  Stanlow  had 
said,  and  I  consoled  myself  with  the  words. 
Do  what  he  would  at  the  piano  my  friend 
could  never  throw  any  music  into  "Mrs.  Mc- 
Aloon ;"  and  I  said  to  myself  persuasively  that 
Sophia  would  never  be  induced  to  accept  that 
title. 

It  took  very  little  time  for  the  secret  of  Mac's 
musical  prowess  to  get  abroad,  after  he  had 
betrayed  it.  Mrs.  Winterrowd  began  to  make 
a  tremendous  fuss  over  the  discovery.  "I  shall 
never  have  any  confidence  in  you  again,"  she 
declared  to  me,  with  playful  rage,  at  Mrs.  Or- 
ton  West's  kettledrum.  "You  knew  it  all  the 
time,  and  ought  to  have  told  me.  But  I  don't 
believe  you  have  a  bit  of  music  in  your  soul — 
no,  not  a  bit." 

But  she  did  what  she  could  by  giving  a  din- 
ner, and  chaining  him  to  the  piano  for  exhibi- 
tion after  it.  In  fine,  she  made  a  lion  of  him, 


Il8       MRS.    WINTERROWD'S  MUSICALS. 

insisted  on  his  accompanying  Bertha  and  her- 
self to  various  entertainments,  made  him  per- 
form at  a  charity  matine'e,  and  assumed  the 
part  of  having  unearthed  his  genius,  and  even 
of  having  pointed  it  out  to  Mac  himself  when 
he  was  hardly  conscious  of  possessing  it. 

Seeing  this,  certain  old  ladies  of  the  Back 
Bay  settled  it  in  their  minds  that  he  would 
soon  be  offered  up  to  Bertha  Matchett.  But 
they  were  destined  to  enjoy  a  greater  surprise. 
One  day  when  I  had  got  back  to  our  rooms 
from  a  committee  meeting  at  the  club,  and 
was  soothing  my  nerves  with  Apollinaris  and  a 
cigarette,  Mac  came  striding  in  under  great 
excitement. 

"Endicott,"  he  cried,  in  his  nervous,  musical 
manner,  closing  and  stretching  his  long  fingers 
as  he  glared  at  me,  "you  have  a  great  many 
fine  girls  in  Boston." 

"I  don't  need  to  be  told  that." 

"Some  of  them  are  beautiful,"  he  next  re- 
marked. 

I  again  mildly  assented. 

"But  only  Miss  Morne  has  a  soul !"  he  wound 
up. 


MRS.    WINTERROWD'S  MUSIC  ALE.        119 

Here  I  felt  obliged  to  protest.     "My  dear 
boy,  you  are  aware  that  I  have  a  sister  here,  / 
several  cousins,  and — " 

"Oh,  yes,  yes,"  he  said  hurriedly,  "I  sup- 
pose they  have  souls,  some  sort  of  souls — that 
is — you  know  what  I  mean,  don't  you?"  I'm 
afraid  I  looked  negative;  but  his  eye  fell  on 
the  piano ;  he  darted  at  it,  sat  down,  and  swept 
the  keys  with  a  wild  sunny  strain,  which  he 
wouldn't  take  the  trouble  to  finish ;  and  then 
he  whirled  around  and  looked  earnestly  at  me. 
"The  fact  is,"  he  said,  "she  has  consented. 
I'm  going  to  marry  her." 

I  threw  away  my  cigarette  and  looked  at  him 
seriously. 

"Heaven  and  earth!"  said  he,  jumping  up. 
"Does  it  it  affect  you  so  badly?  What's  the 
matter,  old  fellow?  You  don't  congratulate 
me." 

"I  will,  as  soon  as  I've  taken  breath,"  said  I. 
(I  was  wondering  how  Sophia  had  reconciled 
herself  to  the  name.)  "Here's  my  hand," 
I  continued.  "Since  you  have  won  Miss 
Morne's,  take  mine  too." 

"That's  a  queer  form  of  congratulation,"  he 


120       MRS.   WINTERROWD'S  MUSIC  ALE. 

said,  presently.  "I  wonder  what  it  means?" 
Then,  in  a  solemn  tone :  "  I  think  you  cared 
more  for  her  than  you  ever  told  me." 

"You  jump  at  conclusions,  Mac." 

"But  if  you  did,"  he  went  on,  "why  didn't 
you  take  her  before  I  came  in  your  way?" 

I  hardly  know  what  moved  me  to  go  on,  but 
I  said :  "Granting  your  assumption,  if  I  had 
asked  her  to  have  me,  she  couldn't  have 
afforded  it." 

McAloon's  eyes  grew  smoky  with  battle. 
"Do  you  mean  to  insult  her,  Endicott — or  me?" 

"Neither.  Take  it  andante  cantabile.  I 
think  Miss  Morne  is  the  loveliest  creature  in 
the  world,  but  I  never  offered  myself  to  her — 
no.  You  know  well  enough,  Mac,  that  I'm  a 
man  of  expensive  habits,  with  a  small  and 
droughty  income." 

My  friend  still  looked  displeased.  "  I  don't 
see  anything  in  that,"  he  said. 

"But  don't  you  understand,  there  are  tra- 
ditions— duties  to  society?  I've  told  you  what 
Morne  sacrificed ;  how  he  has  struggled  to 
keep  his  place  in  our  circle,  and  so  on.  You 
don't  imagine  I  want  to  put  myself  in  the  same 


MRS.    WINTERROWD'S  MUSICALS.        121 

position?  I  dare  say  Miss  Morne  has  had 
enough  of  it,  too.  But  with  you — why,  the 
whole  affair  is  very  different." 

Mac's  face  darkened.  The  man's  moods 
changed  as  swiftly  as  those  of  a  sonata.  He 
had  entered  the  room  in  a  whirl  of  delight, 
suffered  a  disappointment,  grown  angry  with 
me ;  and  now  he  fell  a  prey  to  suspicion. 

"So  you  think  she  is  willing  to  marry  me 
because  my  father  is  rich?"  he  demanded. 

"I  say  nothing  of  the  kind.  No,  I  don't 
think  it.  It  doesn't  present  itself  to  me  in  that 
way  at  all." 

"Nevertheless" — he  began,  but  walked  away 
to  the  window,  and  looked  out  in  a  threaten- 
ing manner.  "This  is  damnable,  Endicott,"  he 
muttered,  suddenly  coming  back  and  looking 
contemptuously  at  the  Apollinaris  bottle. 

"What  is?" 

"I'm  completely  upset.  After  what  you've 
said,  it  must  be  so.  At  any  rate,  I  shall  never 
feel  certain.  I've  always  thought  it  foolish  to 
bother  myself  with  such  ideas,  but  it  does  make 
a  great  difference.  If  Sophia  has  been  influ- 
enced— " 


122       MRS.    WINTERROWD'S  MUSICALS. 

"Listen  to  me,"  I  interrupted.  "Why  should 
you  inquire?  You  love  Miss  Morne.  She  has 
accepted  you.  It  is  to  be  presumed  that  she 
returns  your  feeling;  and,  without  flattery,  I 
don't  see  why  she  shouldn't.  There  is  no  ob- 
stacle to  your  union,  so — In  fact,  that's  the 
whole  story." 

But, "It's  not  so  easily  settled,"  he  insisted, 
and  went  off  to  his  own  room. 

I  was  still  thinking  it  over  and  trying  to 
analyze  my  own  feelings  (if  I  had  any),  when  he 
came  in  again,  and  after  walking  about  a  lit- 
tle, halted  by  the  fire-place.  "That  was  so, 
was  it?"  he  began.  "You  never  proposed  to 
her?  If  you  had,  it  would  have  been  better. 
I  should  feel  more  confidence." 

"Mac,"  said  I,  "I  have  just  one  thing  to  say, 
and  that  is,  drop  your  doubts.  I'm  not  going 
to  discuss  this  subject  with  you  any  further." 

"No,  I  didn't  mean  to,"  he  returned,  to  my 
surprise,  apologetically.  "I  drifted  back  to  it. 
What  I  came  in  to  speak  about  is  quite 
another  thing.  You  mentioned  your  income 
just  now." 

"Yes,  but—" 


MJRS.    WINTERROWD'S  MUSICALE.        123 

"Wait  a  moment ;  you'll  see  that  has  nothing 
to  do  with  it.  I  am  surprised  that  you  don't 
improve  your  affairs." 

"How?" 

"By  speculation.  For  the  last  month,  while 
I  was  uncertain  whether  Miss  Morne  would 
have  me,  I  have  found  I  must  have  some  ex- 
citement, besides  music,  to  distract  me.  So  I 
have  been  falling  back  on  my  business  streak. 
I  took  flyers — copper,  gold,  railroads,  what- 
ever I  could  get  into.  The  result  is,  with 
what  I've  turned  in  and  what  I  carry,  I'm  ten 
thousand  dollars  better  off  than  I  was." 

" 'Ten  thousand!" 

"Yes.     And  you  can  do  the  same." 

"Nonsense.  You  know  I  can't  risk  any 
money  in  that  sort  of  thing." 

"You  needn't  risk  your  own.  I'll  lend  you 
what  you  like." 

"But  if  I  should  lose  it — " 

"Never  mind.  As  I  tell  you,  I've  made  this 
profit,  and  if  I  lose  the  whole,  it  wouldn't  mat- 
ter; so  there's  no  sort  of  reason  why  you 
shouldn't  take  a  part,  and  lose  it,  if  you  prefer 
to  do  that." 


124       MKS.    WINTERROWD'S  MUSICALS. 

The  proposition  was  so  abrupt  that  I  hardly 
knew  how  to  receive  it.  I  could  see,  however, 
that  he  was  bent  on  my  accepting  it.  So  I 
thanked  him,  and  agreed  to  borrow  two  thou- 
sand. 

He  gave  me  the  sum  in  a  draft  on  his  father, 
and  we  went  down  to  the  broker's  in  Devon- 
shire Street,  where  I  invested  to  that  amount ; 
but,  from  a  perversity  I  couldn't  wholly  ac- 
count for,  I  went  very  lightly  into  the  mines 
and  railroads  Mac  had  chosen. 

For  the  next  four  days  the  state  of  the 
market  was,  as  Planetsure  said  when  I  de- 
scribed it  to  him,  like  a  geologic  convulsion. 
But  my  luck  was  astounding.  On  reviewing 
my  condition,  I  saw  that  my  gains  were  very 
nearly  sixteen  thousand  dollars. 

At  the  very  moment  when  I  was  trying  to 
comprehend  such  good  fortune,  the  broker 
received  notice  from  his  bank  that  a  telegram 
had  come,  saying  Mac's  draft  had  been  dis- 
honored. 

"What  can  it  mean?"  I  exclaimed. 

"Very  extraordinary,"  said  the  broker,  fin- 
gering the  note  he  had  just  read.  "A  man  of 


MRS.    WINTERROWD'S  MUSIC  ALE.        125 

Mr.  McAloon's  standing!  There  must  be 
trouble  ahead." 

"And  so  I  lose  my  investments?"  I  inquired. 

"I  should  be  glad  to  take  them,"  said  the 
broker,  who  was  a  club  man.  "But  you'd  bet- 
ter sell  off  enough  to  recover  the  two  thousand 
and  commissions,  and  retain  the  rest." 

"Sell  off  every  penny's  worth,  then,"  I 
besought  him,  "and  give  me  what  belongs 
to  me." 

The  order  was  carried  out  at  the  second 
board. 

"Your  friend's  stocks  have  fallen  off  badly," 
observed  the  man  of  business,  meanwhile. 
"And  now  this  dishonored  draft — "  He  drew 
in  his  breath  and  looked  puzzled. 

"Yes,  so  I  have  observed.  Mac  has  been 
losing  every  day,  while  I've  been  gaining.  It 
is  very  queer  luck." 

My  rapid  sales  caused  me  some  loss;  but 
after  paying  what  I  owed,  I  came  away  with 
about  thirteen  thousand. 

Then  I  went  in  search  of  my  friend.  He 
was  alone  in  an  upper  room  at  the  club,  and 
he  too  had  received  a  telegram.  It  was  from 


126       MRS.    WINTERROWD'S  MUSICALS. 

his  father,  and  ran  thus :  "Wheat  combination 
treacherously  broken.  Falling  market  has 
cleaned  me  out." 

"Cleaned  him  out!"  I  echoed.  "That 
means  he's  ruined,  doesn't  it?  But  it  can't  be. 
I  thought  he  was  worth  two  or  three  millions." 

"That  doesn't  make  it  any  pleasanter,"  said 
Mac,  rather  bitterly.  "He  was  worth  it,  as 
you  say." 

"Well,  I've  got  a  mere  atom  of  a  fortune 
here  in  my  pocket,"  said  I  drawing  out  the 
broker's  heavy  check.  Let  me  assist  you." 
And  then  I  told  him  of  the  dishonored  draft. 

He  smiled,  with  a  wan  look.  "You  don't 
owe  me  anything,  then.  It's  good  of  you  to 
offer  help;  but  I've  got  something  left.  My 
stocks  have  tumbled  horribly,  but" — here  he 
figured  rapidly  with  his  pencil  on  the  margin  of 
a  newspaper — "they  still  leave  me  something 
like  thirty-seven  hundred  altogether;  and  per- 
haps they'll  come  up  again." 

"It's  only  fair,"  I  insisted,  "that  I  should 
hand  you  enough  to  make  us  even,  since  I'm 
indebted  to  you  for  all  I  have  made." 

Mac  tore  off   the  penciled  margin,  twisted 


MRS.    WINTERROWD'S  MUSICALS.        127 

and  crumpled  it,  and  seemed  to  be  thinking  of 
something  else.  "No,  I'd  rather  not,"  he  said, 
at  length,  decisively.  "But  have  you  re- 
flected, Endicott,  that  I  shall  now  have  an 
opportunity  to  solve  my  doubts?" 

Here  was  a  man  wrapped  up  in  his  passion ! 

"No,  I  had  hardly  thought  of  that,"  I  said. 

"Well,"  he  went  on,  in  an  altered  tone,  but 
trying  to  appear  cool,  "I  shall  release  Miss 
Morne  from  her  engagement — send  her  a  note 
this  very  afternoon." 

He  darted,  as  he  spoke,  an  almost  fierce 
glance  at  me,  as  if  he  held  me  responsible  for 
this  state  of  things. 

"Possibly  you're  right  about  the  money," 
said  I,  paying  no  attention  to  his  manner, 
"but  you're  utterly  wrong  about  Miss  Morne. 
Why  need  you  give  her  up?" 

This  he  received  with  a  grating  laugh.  "Oh, 
you  advise  me  not  to,  do  you?"  he  inquired, 
incredulously. 

I  could  not  doubt  any  longer  that  he  had 
been  smitten  with  an  insane  jealousy  of  me. 
"I  don't  give  you  any  advice,"  was  my  answer. 
"I  merely  asked  you  a  question.  It  seemed 


128       MRS.    WINTERROWD'S  MUSICALS. 

to  me  that,  as  you  understand  business,  and 
have  some  capital  left,  you  could  go  on  specu- 
lating and  recover  yourself." 

But  the  odd  mixture  of  the  artist,  the 
man  of  fancy,  in  this  keen-witted  Westerner 
promptly  negatived  the  notion.  "It  was  an 
excitement  with  me,  not  a  trade,"  he  declared. 
"I  can't  afford  it  now. 

I  ceased  to  urge  him 

"Do  me  a  favor,"  he  requested,  abruptly. 
But  if  we  had  been  on  the  stage,  I  should 
have  inferred  from  his  aspect  that  his  part 
required  him  to  stab  me  the  next  moment. 
"When  I  have  freed  Sophia,  go  and  ask  her  to 
marry  you." 

"Mac,  this  is  very  distasteful,"  I  remonstra- 
ted, though  it  was  exactly  what  I  had  been 
thinking  of.  Surprise  sometimes  forces  a  man 
to  be  a  humbug. 

"Very,"  he  returned,  sardonically.  "Prob- 
ably it  is  as  much  so  to  me  as  to  you.  But 
I  mean  it.  It  will  be  a  great  satisfaction 
to  me." 

"I  should  never  think  it,  to  look  at  you,"  I 
observed,  with  some  cruelty. 


MRS.    WINTERROWD'S  MUSICALS.        129 

"Very  well,  then,"  he  retorted,  in  a  smoth- 
ered tone,  "consider  that  you  would  be  inflict- 
ing a  savage  wound  on  me  if  that  pleases  you 
better.  In  either  case  you  won't  need  much 
urging,  I  see,"  he  added,  with  a  sneer.  "Do 
you  agree?" 

"I  agree  to  retain  the  liberty  that  belongs  to 
me,  nothing  more,"  said  I,  now  thoroughly 
angry.  And  yet  I  pitied  him. 

When  I  was  alone  I  began  to  think  he 
deserved  a  defeat.  The  question  whether  I 
could  administer  that  defeat  next  grew  to  have 
a  dangerous  fascination.  I  fell  asleep  late  at 
night  brooding  over  this ;  and  when  I  woke  in 
the  morning  I  was  filled  with  an  ardent  desire 
to  test  it. 

Mac  appeared  at  breakfast  exhausted  and 
unnerved.  "I  sent  the  note,"  he  said  shortly, 
and  relapsed  into  silence.  After  a  while  I 
asked  him  whether  he  had  any  idea  what  he 
should  do  in  the  future. 

He  held  up  his  long  hands.  "Here's  my 
living,"  he  said. 

"What?    Music?" 

He  nodded. 


13°       MRS.    WINTERROWD'S  MUSICALE. 

Neither  of  us  wanted  to  talk.  A  constraint 
almost  like  that  between  strangers  had  come 
between  us,  and  it  was  clearly  better  that  we 
should  separate  promptly.  I  therefore  took 
care  to  spend  the  day  away  from  him.  And  a 
very  strange  day  it  was. 

Finally,  when  evening  came,  and  I  was  on 
my  way  to  the  old  house  with  the  white  door, 
I  knew  that  I  had  resolved  to  offer  myself  to 
Miss  Morne. 

It  was  a  point  of  pride  with  her,  I  suppose, 
to  receive  me,  though  she  did  not  look  in  her 
usual  spirits,  by  any  means. 

"Of  course  you  know  of  the  misfortune,"  she 
said  at  once — "that  Mac  (she  had  adopted  that 
diminutive)  has  become  a  poor  man?" 

"Yes,  and  that  something  else  has  happened 
also." 

Her  eyelids  fell.  "Then  he  told  you  what 
he  meant  to  do?"  she  responded,  almost  in  a 
whisper. 

If  one  can  pity  and  admire  at  the  same 
moment,  that  was  what  I  did  in  watching  the 
soft  shadowy  blush  upon  her  cheek.  She  was 
dressed  in  pale  brown  silk,  judiciously  trimmed 


MRS.    WINTERROWD'S  MUSICALS.        131 

with  white  lace  of  a  heavy  pattern ;  three  rose- 
buds bloomed  at  her  belt,  and  the  color  of  the 
pink  ones  was  darkly  repeated  by  a  garnet  pin 
partly  hidden  in  the  lace  near  her  throat.  If 
the  costume  had  been  expressly  designed  to 
blush  in,  it  could  not  have  been  better. 

"Yes,  he  has  confided  in  me,"  I  answered. 
"Are  you  willing,  Miss  Morne,  to  do  the  same?" 

"What  a  very  singular  question!"  said  Miss 
Morne,  with  something  of  sternness  in  her 
eyes  as  she  lifted  them  and  glanced  quickly  at 
me.  "That  would  be  a  different  thing  alto- 
gether. And  what  have  I  to  confide?" 

"  I  am  anxious  to  know  what  you  are  going 
to  do." 

"Going  to  do?"  she  smiled.  "That's  more 
singular  than  the  other  question  even.  I 
don't  know  why  you  should  ask  me  these 
things." 

"I  hope,"  said  I,  "you  understand  that  I 
wouldn't  ask  them  without  very  special 
reasons." 

"Ah,"  she  returned,  dropping  into  a  more 
easy  defense,  "then  he  has  sent  you?  That 
was  very  wrong." 


132       MRS.    WINTERROWD'S  MUSIC  ALE. 

"No,  he  did  not  send  me,"  I  made  answer, 
embarrassed. 

"You  are  mysterious."  And  again  she 
smiled.  But  the  sadness  I  had  been  wont  to 
fancy  in  her  cheeks  was  really  there  now,  and 
these  faint  smiles  did  not  drive  it  away.  "But 
I  will  be  frank,  at  any  rate.  Papa  was  great- 
ly troubled  at  first,  but  I  think  he  is  rather 
relieved  now.  He  appeared  to  think  that  Mr. 
McAloon  would  insist  on  the  engagement,  but 
now  he  is  convinced  it  won't  be  so." 

What  had  convinced  him,  I  asked  myself? 
Evidently  his  daughter's  determination  to 
receive  no  overtures  to  a  new  engagement. 
This,  then,  was  in  my  favor. 

I  resumed:  "Miss  Morne,  my  reason  for 
those  questions —  Ah,  I  came  here  this  even- 
ing—" 

But  in  the  very  act  of  uttering  my  purpose 
I  abandoned  it.  I  can  hardly  describe  the 
feeling  that  arrested  me.  There  was  some- 
thing atrocious  in  taking  advantage  of  Mac's 
misfortune,  something  abhorrent  about  having 
thrown  the  dice,  as  it  were,  for  this  woman, 
which  I  had  been  too  much  excited  to  compre- 


MKS.    WINTERROWD'S  MUSIC  ALE.        133 

hend  until  then.  But  it  all  revealed  itself  to 
me  at  that  instant. 

"Ah,  yes,  do  tell  me  what  you  came  for. 
It  is  so  mysterious,"  said  Miss  Morne,  with 
innocent  perplexity. 

"What  I  want  to  say,"  I  replied,  as  if  con- 
tinuing, "is  that  I  think  you  may  do  Mac  an 
injustice.  It  was  a  generous  impulse,  no 
doubt,  that  made  him  write  that  note,  but  I'm 
sure  he  is  regretting  it  at  this  moment  passion- 
ately. If  you  had  seen  his  face  at  the  club — " 

She  threw  out  her  hand  with  a  brief  gesture 
of  pain.  "  I  would  rather  not  hear  this,"  she 
said. 

"Only  let  me  say,"  I  concluded,  "that  he 
already  has  a  plan  in  his  head  for  putting  him- 
self in  better  circumstances.  If  you  would 
permit  me  to  encourage  him  to  come  and 
speak  with  you  about  it —  Oh,  I  know  it's  a 
great  liberty." 

"It's  very  kind  of  you,"  she  answered.  "I 
understand.  The  liberty  I  can  forgive,  Mr. 
Endicott.  But  I  have  no  message  for — for 
him." 

Mortified  and    rather    puzzled,    I  talked  a 


134       MRS.   WINTERROWD'S  MUSIC  ALE. 

little  of  other  things,  and  then  got  up  to  go. 
But  as  I  did  so  I  ventured  to  say,  "Those  rose- 
buds are  wonderfully  fine.  If  you  could  for- 
give two  liberties  in  an  evening,  I  should  ask 
for  a  bud." 

"The  tea-rose  ?" 

"No,  the  pink."  She  disengaged  it  and 
gave  it  me. 

"If  Mac  has  been  a  trifle  insane,"  I  reflected, 
as  I  walked  home,  "I  have  too";  and  I  was 
quite  at  a  loss  to  understand  my  own  conduct 
fully.  As  for  Sophia,  I  likewise  began  to  sus- 
pect her.  How  account  for  her  obdurate 
unwillingness  to  have  Mac  come  and  make 
amends  for  his  note,  unless  she  preferred  to 
lose  him  along  with  his  money? 

He  was  playing  stormily  on  the  piano  as  I 
entered,  but  stopped  and  burst  into  violent 
laughter  on  seeing  me.  "Sit  down !"  he  cried. 
"I  have  the  oddest  story  to  tell  you." 

"I  have  something  to  tell  you,  too,"  I  inter- 
posed. 

But  he  insisted  on  my  listening  first.  The 
constraint  that  had  cramped  our  intercourse 
for  a  day  or  two  seemed  to  have  vanished. 


MRS.    WINTERROWD'S  MUSIC  ALE,        135 

"Where  do  you  suppose  I  have  been?"  he 
demanded.  "  I've  been  to  see  Mrs.  Winter- 
rowd.  What  of  it?  Well,  you  shall  hear"; 
and  he  proceeded  to  relate  how  he  had  called 
in  Commonwealth  Avenue,  and  received  Mrs. 
Winterrowd's  condolence  on  his  father's  failure. 

"But  I  hope  he  will  soon  get  over  it,"  she 
had  said. 

"The  inconvenience  is  only  temporary,"  Mac 
had  assured  her.  "As  for  me,  it  is  a  shock, 
annoying  and  all  that,  but  nothing  more." 

The  patroness  of  music  and  lions  expressed 
her  delight. 

He  went  on  to  make  formal  acknowledg- 
ment of  many  kindnesses  during  his  stay  in 
Boston.  "I  don't  know  how  to  thank  you  for 
giving  me  that  opportunity  to  play  at  the 
charity  matine'e,"  said  Mac ;  and  she  took  it  in 
good  faith.  "But,  after  so  many  favors,  I  am 
emboldened  to  ask  one  more." 

"Ah!"  Mrs.  Winterrowd  raised  her  noble 
eyebrows  with  a  very  charming  expression. 

"Yes,  a  very  important  one,  a  very  serious 
one,"  he  explained,  "in  connection  with  your 
niece." 


I36       MRS.    WINTERROWD'S  MUSIC  ALE. 

Here  the  lady  became  pleasantly  and  becom- 
ingly grave. 

"You  will  permit  me,  Mrs.  Winterrowd,  to 
speak  plainly  of  my  admiration  for  Miss 
Matchett.  She  is  a  very  lovely  young  lady." 

"Ah,  as  to  that,  we  shall  agree  admirably," 
answered  Miss  Matchett's  aunt. 

"The  favor  I  have  to  ask  may  have  an  im- 
portant influence  on  my  future,"  said  he. 

There  could  no  longer  be  any  doubt.  "Ah, 
Mr.  McAloon,"  replied  Mrs.  Winterrowd,  "I 
can  easily  understand  that,  and  upon  hers 
too." 

"You  do  me  too  much  honor,"  said  the 
young  man,  humbly. 

"But  before  we  talk  of  this,"  she  continued, 
in  a  tone  of  most  tender  confidence,  "don't 
you  think  it  would  be  well  to  hear  more  from 
your  father?  It  saves  so  much  care  to  have 
one's  future  clear." 

"Ah,  but  that's  precisely  what  I  want  to  set- 
tle now,"  said  he. 

"Naturally,"  said  the  matron,  throwing  her- 
self lightly  into  the  mood  of  youth.  "Young 
people  feel  that  there  is  only  one  question  of 


MRS.    WIiVTERROWD'S  MUSICALS.        137 

importance  to  be  settled,  and  in  one  sense  that 
is  true.  Believe  me,  I  fully  sympathize  with 
you,  and  I  appreciate  the  import  of  this  one 
question.  It  might  perhaps  be  answered  now, 
but  my  duty  to  Bertha,  you  know — " 

"Your  duty,  madam !  What  has  that  to  do 
with  my  giving  Miss  Matchett  music  lessons?" 

Mrs.  Winterrowd  returned  his  feigned  aston- 
ishment with  a  very  real  equivalent.  "Music 
lessons  /"  she  cried,  in  horror.  "You,  Mr.  Mc- 
Aloon?" 

"Undoubtedly.  I  must  make  my  living  in 
that  way,  now,  and  it  would  have  an  important 
influence  on  my  success  if  you  were  to  give  me 
your  patronage." 

"I  see  I  have  completely  misunderstood 
you.  Then  that  is  really  to  be  your  future ! 
Very  odd ;  very  odd."  She  already  began  to 
scrutinize  her  former  lion  with  a  distant, 
undervaluing  air.  But  there  was  a  vein  of 
Yankee  sharpness  under  her  superficial  grand- 
eur, and  a  bartering  scheme  had  occurred  to 
her.  "Possibly  I  can  assist  you,"  she  began, 
"but  of  course  you  did  not  "propose — you  had 
not  thought  of  compensation?  The  adver — 


I3§       MRS.    WINTERROWD'S  MUSICALS. 

I  mean,  the  reputation  it  would  bring  you 
to  be  giving  my  niece  instruction  would  repay 
you  for  the  time,  I  dare  say." 

"Unfortunately,"  answered  Mac  with  a 
touch  of  indolent  magnificence,  "my  prices 
must  be  rather  high,  and  I  could  hardly  afford 
to  enter  into  such  an  arrangement.  We  shall 
have  to  give  it  up,  I'm  afraid." 

"There's  one  city  finished  off,  then,"  I  .ex- 
claimed, after  hearing  this  recital.  "You  never 
can  do  anything  in  Boston  now." 

"I  don't  want  to,  either,"  he  declared  vehe- 
mently. 

"I  have  been  to  see  Miss  Morne  this  even- 
ing," I  said,  lighting  a  cigar. 

All  his  gloom  returned  in  a  moment. 

"But  she  won't  have  me,"  I  added. 

"She  has  refused  you?"  demanded  he, 
bounding  to  his  feet,  and  clutching  the  piano 
with  one  hand. 

I  hesitated ;  then  I  said :  "You  seem  to 
take  a  special  satisfaction  in  humiliating  me. 
You  heard  what  I  said.  Of  course  it  was 
absurd  to  expect  she  would  consider  me.  Are 
you  content  to  let  the  thing  rest  as  it  is?" 


MRS.    WINTERROWD'S  MUSICALE.        139 

Mac  pulled  out  his  watch.  "Confound  it! 
it's  too  late." 

"What  for?" 

"To  go  to  the  Mornes," 

"Allegretto — finale!"  I  exclaimed.  "Aren't 
you  rather  rushing  the  thing?  Apparently 
you  forget  that  you're  not  engaged  any 
longer." 

"No,  I  don't,"  said  my  hasty  friend,  "but 
I  want  to  be.  I  can  show  Sophia  that  every- 
thing may  still  go  well  if  she — that  is,  that  I 
shall  make  a  success  of  some  sort  in  music." 

His  doubt  and  jealousy  had  passed;  the 
transient  cloud  between  himself  and  me  was 
dissolved;  but  I  can't  say  I  was  altogether 
pleased  with  this  business  of  his  retiring  in  my 
favor  for  a  day  or  two,  and  then  fancying  he 
could  resume  his  romance.  "You  have 
offended  her,"  I  said.  "It  may  not  be  so  easy 
as  you  imagine  to  put  off  and  take  on  this 
engagement." 

But  "Heaven  helps  fools  like  me,"  he  assert- 
ed, "and  frustrates  wise  men  like  you,  Endi- 
cott."  And  I'm  inclined  to  think  he  was 
right. 


140       MRS,    WINTERROWD'S  MUSIC  ALE. 

When  he  had  gone  to  see  Sophia  the  next 
day,  I  occupied  his  absence  with  a  carefully 
constructed  theory  of  the  impossible,  to  wit, 
her  becoming  a  music  teacher's  wife.  When 
he  returned,  my  theory  was  nowhere. 

"And  is  this  the  end,"  Mr.  Morne  lament- 
ingly  asked  me  one  day,  "for  which  I  have 
spent  all  my  life  trying  to  keep  a  position  in 
society?"  But  his  asides  to  me  and  his  plaints 
to  his  daughter  were  of  no  avail. 

Finding  opposition  useless,  he  tried  to  in- 
duce his  prospective  son-in-law  at  least  to  stay 
in  Boston. 

"I  don't  want  to  stay  in  a  city,"  declared 
Mac,  "where,  for  all  its  delightfulness,  I  have 
the  example  of  poor  neglected  Virgin  before 
me,  and  where  your  best  group  thinks  it  a 
favor  to  have  'treated  Sophia  well,'  as  Endi- 
cott  says  they  have." 

Knowing  his  irritable  genius,  I  pardoned 
him,  for  my  part.  He  went  off  with  his  bride 
to  Cincinnati,  and  now  he  writes  me  that  he 
makes  a  very  good  income. 

I  think  Morne  would  like  to  follow  too,  but 


MA'S.    WIXTERROWD'S  MUSIC  ALE.        141 

he  can't  leave  his  business  nor  his  place  on  the 
edge  of  society.  Miss  Yarrow  and  Jim  Tor- 
ringford,  who  had  at  several  different  times 
deigned  to  recognize  Sophia,  can  not  now 
endure  even  the  mention  of  her  name ;  and  as 
for  Mrs.  Winterrowd,  she  reproaches  me  for 
ever  having  introduced  Mac,  who,  she  inti- 
mates, was  almost  an  untutored  savage. 

Miss  Stanlow  and  I  still  continue  to  look 
forward  to  dancing  the  Diagonal ;  but  the  sat- 
isfaction I  take  in  that  is  divided  with  the 
pleasure  I  have  in  my  pink  rosebud. 

One  question  still  proves  extremely  puzzling 
to  me :  if  I  really  loved  Miss  Morne,  why  did  I 
abstain  from  testing  my  chances?  But  here 
the  habit  of  a  lifetime  baffles  me  :  I  have  been 
repressing  my  emotions  so  long,  that  I  posi- 
tively can't  tell  what  particular  one  I  repressed 
on  that  occasion. 


"UNFINISHED." 


I. 

WHAT  most  attracted  the  notice  of  Jervis 
Faulder  on  going  into  the  gallery  of 
Childs  &  Purvis,  the  picture  dealers,  was  a 
canvas  presenting  the  full-length  figure  of  a 
tallish,  spirited  young  lady  in  a  black  dress, 
with  some  kind  of  timid,  coy,  dark  bonnet  on 
her  head.  Not  a  downright,  conclusive  bon- 
net, but  one  which  seemed  to  have  set  out 
with  a  foolish  plan  of  covering  up  those  beau- 
tiful twists  of  pale  chestnut  hair,  and  then  im- 
pulsively to  have  given  up  the  idea.  It  was 
incomplete;  and  so  was  the  painting.  The 
young  lady  in  black  started  out  from  the 
vague  fumid  tints  of  the  background  with  won- 
derful vigor,  smiling  as  if  with  the  surprise  of 
her  own  sweet  advent.  But  the  dress  in  por- 
tions was  only  scumbled  on  with  great  haste, 
and  behold,  one  of  her  dainty  hands  was  alto- 
142 


"  UNFINISHED."  1 43 

gether  missing.  Jervis  knew  it  must  have 
been  dainty  by  reference  to  the  other,  which 
was  seen  holding  a  wrinkled  glove.  Below,  on 
the  frame,  hung  a  card,  bearing  the  word 
"Unfinished." 

But  the  picture  was  evidently  a  portrait,  and 
it  was  the  work  of  a  distinguished  Boston 
artist,  whom,  in  order  to  give  him  a  classical 
air,  we  will  call  Venator.  Faulder  found  the 
mystery  of  the  subject  and  the  incompleteness 
tantalizing,  yet  engaging. 

"Have  you  seen  that  unfinished  girl  of  Ven- 
ator's?"  he  asked,  when  he  called  soon  after  on 
his  friend  Mrs.  Crayshaw,  of  Brookline,  an 
illustrious  member  of  the  social  oligarchy. 

Mrs.  Crayshaw  based  her  interest  in  por- 
traits largely  on  the  standing  of  their  owners. 
"Do  you  mean  the  picture,"  she  inquired  in 
return,  "or  the  lady  herself?" 

"The  lady,  by  all  means,"  said  Faulder, 
promptly.  "Do  you  know  her?" 

"That  I  can't  tell  until  I  have  seen  the 
painting.  Of  course,  being  by  Venator,  it's 
quite  possible — ah,  quite  likely — that  I  do 
know  her;  that  is,  it  must  be  very  good." 


144  "  UNFINISHED." 

(She  referred  really  to  the  social  status  of 
the  canvas.) 

"You  really  ought  to  see  it,"  Faulder  urged. 
"There's  time  now,  if  you  drive  into  town. 
We  shall  have  the  mellow  afternoon  light, 
and — "  He  paused,  embarrassed,  as  if  he  had 
nearly  betrayed  some  interest  deeper  than  that 
of  the  idle  connoisseur. 

"I'll  order  the  horses  at  once,  and  we'll  go 
together,"  said  his  friend. 

But  when  they  reached  the  gallery  and 
Faulder  indicated  the  picture  by  a  flash  of  the 
eyes,  Mrs.  Crayshaw  stood  instantly  still,  with 
a  shock.  A  faint  blush  stole  over  her  cool, 
handsome  face,  as  though  she  felt  herself 
unwillingly  involved  in  a  social  impropriety. 
"That?"  (in  subdued  remonstrance) — "why, 
that's  only  Miss  Hetwood.  Miss — what's  that 
odd  name? — oh,  Candace;  yes,  Candace  Het- 
wood." 

"It's  a  charming  name,  at  any  rate,"  said 
Faulder.  "Why  do  you  say  'only'?  Don't 
you  like  her?" 

"Neither  like  nor  dislike,"  Mrs.  Crayshaw 
answered.  "Her  family  were  very  obscure.  I 


' '  UNFINISHED. "  145 

just  happen  to  know  her  name  because  she's  a 
member  of  our  congregation  at  St.  Stephen's." 

"Merely  an  impecunious  fellow-worshiper, 
eh?" 

"Weak  sarcasm,"  Mrs.  Crayshaw  remarked, 
with  playfully  critical  demeanor,  "is  a  sign  of 
immaturity.  But,  I  forgive  youth — most  de- 
lightful of  faults !  The  portrait  is  certainly  a 
good  one.  But  the  original  could  hardly  inter- 
est you :  she's  one  of  those  girls  who  never 
get  beyond  a  certain  stage — require  a  second 
baking." 

"Human  ceramics,"  muttered  Faulder. 
"She  hasn't  the  true  Elder-Brewster-teapot 
mark,  I  suppose.  But  Venator  doesn't  seem 
to  mind.  Is  there  any  room  left  at  St.  Steph- 
en's, Mrs.  Crayshaw?" 

"Our  pew  is  always  at  your  service,"  smiled 
that  accomplished  matron,  looking  straight 
through  his  well-cut  waistcoat,  and  observing 
the  condition  of  his  heart. 

It  was  but  a  Sunday  or  two  afterward  that 
Faulder  repaired  to  the  little  Episcopal  church 
where  Mrs.  Crayshaw  worshiped  (and  allowed 
less  fortunate  beings  to  adore  her).  But  he 


146  "  UNFINISHED." 

did  not  claim  admission  to  her  pew.  In  the 
darkness  of  the  church  he  could  not  at  first 
discover  the  face  he  was  looking  for.  But 
when  the  people  rose — rustling  like  an  exten- 
sive bed  of  artificial  flowers — to  recite  the 
psalms  of  the  day,  a  sudden  ray  from  the  outer 
sunlight  fell  into  the  transept.  Then  Faulder 
saw,  bathed  in  the  sunbeam,  those  fair  cheeks 
and  brown  eyes  and  the  pale  chestnut  hair 
which  he  already  knew  so  well  without  having 
beheld  them.  Truth  compels  the  statement 
that  at  this  point  he  neglected  his  religious 
duty,  and  the  service  dwindled  to  a  bewilder- 
ing monotone  in  his  ears.  But  the  assembly 
soon  sat  down  again,  and  Miss  Hetwood  once 
more  disappeared  in  the  barren  stretch  of  arti- 
ficial flowers.  Inconsistent  though  it  seems, 
the  young  man  was  surprised  to  find  how 
closely  she  resembled  her  own  portrait.  He 
had  expected  to  see  her  more  prim  and  con- 
ventional, with  less  artistic  fire  in  her  features, 
less  effect  of  a  rapid  sketch,  and  more  of  an  air 
of  having  been  worked  out  in  all  details.  But 
he  now  perceived  how  exactly  the  painter's  mode 
of  treatment  was  in  keeping  with  the  original. 


' '  UNFINISHED. "  147 

They  had  got  as  far  as  the  Litany,  when  a 
stir  in  one  of  the  aisles  caused  him  to  lift  his 
bowed  head,  and  this  time  he  saw  Miss  Het- 
wood  moving  from  her  pew ;  an  old  gentleman, 
apparently  her  father,  leaning  heavily  on  her 
shoulder.  Two  gentlemen  came  to  their 
assistance,  and  Faulder  also  left  his  place  to 
follow,  all  moving  out  at  the  side  door  just  as 
the  pastor  and  his  flock  were  uttering  the 
petition,  " — and  from  sudden  death,  Good 
Lord,  deliver  us" 

"Can  I  assist  you?"  the  young  man  asked,  as 
Mr.  Hetwood  was  seated  by  the  others  on  the 
stone  step  outside.  "I  am  a  physician." 

Candace  received  his  offer  with  a  glance  of 
swift  gratitude;  but  though  Faulder  would 
have  liked  nothing  better  than  to  go  on  gazing 
into  her  frank  brown  eyes,  he  lost  no  time  in 
producing  his  pocket  case  and  giving  a  restora- 
tive to  the  pallid  old  gentleman,  now  quite 
unconscious. 

"Oh,  do  tell  me,  is  it  anything  dangerous?" 
Candace  asked. 

"  I  hardly  think  so,"  said  Faulder,  striving 
to  maintain  a  calm  professional  manner,  for 


I 48  "  UNFINISHED." 

this  unexpected  contact  somehow  agitated  him 
more  than  he  could  have  believed.  "It's  only 
a  fainting  fit.  See,  he  is  opening  his  eyes 
again.  Your  father,  I  presume,  Miss  Het- 
wood?" 

"Dear  papa,"  cried  she,  bending  over  him, 
"are  you  all  right  again?"  Mr.  Hetwood  nod- 
ded a  feeble  encouragement.  Then  she  turned 
to  Faulder.  "I  see  you  knew  our  name,"  she 
observed. 

"Y — yes;  so  I  did.     I  forgot  that." 

"Forgot  what?"  Candace  looked  surprised. 

"I  beg  your  pardon,"  said  he,  stumblingly. 
"Not  your  name,  but  that  you  didn't  know 
it — I  mean,  know  that  I  knew — "  And  here 
Faulder  stopped,  feeling  that  he  was  making 
an  idiotic  exhibition  of  himself. 

"At  any  rate,  we  are  greatly  indebted  to 
you,"  she  said  sweetly,  ignoring  his  confusion. 

"May  I  ask  who  this  is?"  said  Mr.  Hetwood, 
looking  up. 

"I  will  give  you  a  card.  I  trust  you  feel 
quite  well  now?"  Yet  even  while  addressing 
him,  Faulder  could  not  keep  his  eyes  from 
Candace. 


' '  UNFINISHED. "  1 49 

At  that  instant  a  carriage,  for  which  one  of 
the  other  gentleman  had  gone,  rolled  up.  Mr. 
Hetwood  was  helped  in ;  he  and  his  daughter 
bowed  to  Faulder;  and  the  interview,  which 
had  barely  begun,  broke  off  abruptly.  This 
was  provoking  enough.  The  problem  that 
now  presented  itself  was  how  to  continue  the 
acquaintance.  Being  wealthy,  our  young  phy- 
sician had  not  yet  taken  the  trouble  to  burden 
himself  with  a  practice,  and  so  he  found  time 
during  the  next  few  days  to  think  a  good  deal 
about  Candace.  He  had  not  made  up  his 
mind  what  to  do,  however,  when  chance  again 
favored  him.  Turning  the  corner  of  Winter 
Street  suddenly  one  afternoon,  into  Tremont, 
he  came  upon  the  young  lady  herself,  darkly 
dressed,  but  bright  and  rosy  in  the  frost-keen 
air.  If  you  have  seen  a  Margoten  rose  or  a 
La  France  on  the  bush,  when  a  breeze  gently 
ruffles  the  close-gathered  petals,  and  if  you 
have  noticed  that  there  is  a  change  of  crim- 
sons in  the  folds  of  the  flower,  which  makes  it 
flush  and  whiten  at  the  same  time,  you  will 
know  how  Candace  looked  just  then. 

Faulder  lifted    his    hat.      "Pardon    me    for 


150  "  UNFINISHED." 

stopping  you,"  he  said,  "but  1  want  to  ask 
after  your  father." 

"Oh,  he  seems  as  well  as  ever,"  she  an- 
swered ;  "and  I  think  he  wants  to  see  you. 
Can't  you  call  some  evening?" 

"I  should  be  delighted." 

Before  he  could  collect  himself  enough  to 
ask  their  address,  she  had  bowed  and  gone  on. 
He  turned  to  speak  to  her  again,  but  she  had 
disappeared  among  the  crowd,  and  he  gave 
it  up. 

"Is  it  always  to  be  like  this?"  he  wondered; 
"always  something  fragmentary  and  incom- 
plete in  our  meetings?"  But  he  bethought 
him  of  the  sexton  at  St.  Stephen's,  and  having 
learned  the  address,  he  made  his  call  the  next 
evening. 

Both  father  and  daughter  were  at  home. 

"I  am  glad  to  see  you,  doctor,"  said  the  old 
gentleman.  "We  hurried  off  so  the  other  day, 
you  must  have  thought  us  rude." 

"Oh,  not  at  all.  As  a  stranger  I  had  no 
claim  upon  you." 

"The  name  of  Faulder,  sir,"  returned  Mr. 
Hetwood,  not  in  the  best  taste,  "is  too  well 


' '  UNFINISHED. "  *Sl 

known  in  Boston  for  you  to  be  a  stranger. 
Your  family — " 

"I  have  myself  heard  a  good  deal  about," 
said  Jervis,  smiling.  "It's  an  old  subject,  Mr. 
Hetwood." 

"But  I'm  curious,"  said  the  old  gentleman, 
"to  learn  how  you  came  to  hear  of  our  name." 
Jervis  explained.  But  the  mention  of  the  por- 
trait seemed  to  make  Mr.  Hetwood  uneasy. 

"How  do  you  like  being  exhibited?"  Faul- 
der  asked,  turning  to  Candace. 

"I  don't  like  it  a  bit,"  she  declared,  informally. 

"Shall  you  withdraw  the  picture  then?" 

Miss  Hetwood  flushed.  "I  can't,"  she  said. 
"It's  not  mine.  It  belongs  to  Venator." 

He  saw  that  he  had  forced  a  disagreeable 
admission.  "I  don't  understand  his  insisting 
on  anything  that  is  disagreeable  to  you,"  he 
observed.  "And  yet  I  ought  to  be  grateful  to 
him  for  it,  for  without  the  picture  I  shouldn't 
have  made  your  acquaintance." 

But  Candace  would  not  spare  herself.  "You 
see,"  she  continued,  glancing  around  the  room, 
"we  are  poor,  and  can  not  afford  such  a  paint- 
ing as  that." 


IS2  "UNFINISHED." 

"It  ought  to  be  yours,  though,"  Faulder 
asserted,  a  plan  suddenly  taking  shape  in  his 
mind. 

He  did  not  stay  long;  and  on  his  going, 
they  asked  him  to  come  again.  "I  shall  be 
happy  to  have  my  sister  call  on  you,"  he  said 
to  Candace,  "if  you  will  permit  her." 

"But  I'm  not  in  society,"  she  protested. 

"All  the  more  reason  why  you  should 
begin." 

She  hesitated,  and  then  began  a  timid, 
"Well,  if  you  think—" 

"I  do,"  said  Faulder.  "So  we  will  call  it 
settled." 

It  was  not  settled  at  once,  however,  for 
Miss  Henrietta  Faulder  strongly  objected  when 
her  brother  proposed  it  to  her.  Leaving  this 
difficulty  to  arrange  itself  through  the  play  of 
natural  curiosity  which  he  knew  how  to  excite, 
Jervis  went  off  to  see  Venator. 

II. 

This  painter,  thriving  on  the  patronage  of  a 
rich  and  cultivated  class  that  adored  him,  was 
in  a  position  to  rail  at  their  affectations  or  ego- 


"  UNFINISHED."  1 5  3 

tism  with  impunity.  Meanwhile  he  lived  in  a 
Bohemian  way,  occupying  a  bleak,  lonely 
studio  at  the  top  of  a  huge  commercial  build- 
ing, and  squeezing  a  comfortable  income  out 
of  his  little  color  tubes.  He  was  a  man  of 
more  than  middle  age,  with  deep-set  eyes  and 
a  long,  careless,  gray  mustache.  He  received 
the  young  physician  with  a  bitter,  piercing 
glance  that  had  no  welcome  in  it,  so  that  Jervis 
hastened  to  introduce  himself  and  his  errand. 

I  want  to  buy  your  portrait  of  Miss  Het- 
wood,"  he  stated,  briefly. 

"It  isn't  for  sale,"  replied  Venator,  with  a 
kind  of  hiss  from  under  his  mustache.  Then 
striding  across  the  bare  floor,  he  disappeared 
behind  a  canvas,  which  he  stroked  heavily  with 
his  brush,  as  if  it  were  some  kind  of  watch-dog 
that  he  was  restraining  for  a  moment. 

"  I  thought  possibly  you  would  say  so.  But 
I  have  become  singularly  interested  in  Miss 
Hetwood,  and  besides — " 

"Ha!  you  know  her,  then,"  the  artist  ex- 
claimed, rather  melodramatically,  emerging 
from  his  concealment. 

"A  little.     How  came  it  that  you  had  the 


154  "  UNFINISHED. " 

luck  to  find  her,  and  she  the  good  fortune  to 
be  painted  by  you?" 

Venator  had  once  more  disappeared  behind 
his  easel.  "That's  right,"  he  remarked,  senten- 
tiously ;  "whittle  your  compliments  fine  at  both 
ends."  He  then  appeared  to  forget  that  any 
one  was  present,  and  worked  at  his  picture  in 
silence.  All  at  once  he  resumed,  casually: 
"One  of  the  boys  that  study  with  me  was 
acquainted  with  her.  We  went  out  to  see  her 
one  day,  and  I  could  not  sleep  till  I  began  the 
portrait." 

A  spasm  of  alarm  attacked  Faulder.  "Who 
was  the  'boy'  you  refer  to?"  he  inquired. 

"His  name  is  Swinton." 

Faulder  knew  that  Swinton  was  a  clever 
young  artist,  who  handled  trees  in  a  familiar 
manner,  and  was  pressing  the  cow  into  ser- 
vice as  a  sort  of  pictorial  and  female  Pegasus. 
But  Swinton's  talent  was  greater  than  his 
personal  attractions,  so  that  he  gave  no  cause 
for  jealousy — supposing  that  Faulder  cared 
to  be  jealous.  After  an  awkward  pause  he 
said :  "  I  don't  wonder  at  your  enthusiasm, 
but  you  must  let  me  pay  my  tribute  to  the 


"UNFINISHED."  155 

genius  with  which  you  have  represented  her. 
This  isn't  a  whittled  compliment.  It's  a  blunt 
one." 

The  painter  looked  around  the  edge  of  the 
canvas,  suspecting  a  new  light  on  his  visitor. 
This  time  his  eyes  betrayed  good-fellowship. 
"But  it  wasn't  so  much  Miss  Hetwood  I  was 
enthusiastic  about,"  he  affirmed ;  "it  was  the 
painting  of  her." 

"Is  she  only  good  as  a  portrait,  then?" 
Faulder  queried. 

"That  depends  on  how  you  look  at  her," 
said  Venator.  "As  a  woman  there's  more 
nature  than  art  in  her,  I  should  say.  But 
that's  an  advantage.  If  I  were  in  love  with 
her,  for  example — "  He  appeared  not  to  think 
the  sentence  worth  finishing. 

Faulder  was  annoyed.  "It's  hardly  neces- 
sary to  discuss  her  in  that  way,  I  suppose," 
said  he.  "Let  us  go  back  to  business.  It 
strikes  me  that  it  would  be  fitting  for  Miss 
Hetwood  to  own  the  picture  herself.  Will  you 
allow  me  to  buy  it  on  condition  of  presenting 
it  to  her?" 

Venator  ceased  working,  but  still  remained 


IS6  "  UNFINISHED. " 

out  of  view,  except  for  his  legs,  which  were 
visible  below  the  shelf  on  which  his  picture  rest- 
ed. The  legs  looked  meditative.  At  length 
he  said,  abruptly,  "You're  interfering." 

Faulder  blushed  in  astonishment,  at  this 
indignity.  "We'll  agree  that  I  am,"  he  never- 
theless answered.  "Will  you  consider  my  pro- 
posal?" 

The  artist  got  up  and  stalked  about  ner- 
vously. "Tell  me  first  what  your  interest  in 
all  this  is." 

"I  might — if  I  could,"  returned  the  other. 
"I'm  not  sure  what  it  is  yet." 

"Well,  then,  I'll  answer  your  proposition 
with  another:  I'll  keep  the  picture,  and  let 
you  take  the  young  lady." 

"I  decline  to  pursue  this  strain,  sir,"  retorted 
Faulder.  "  I  respect  Miss  Hetwood  too  much 
to  assume  that  she  can  be  made  over  to  any- 
body by  a  word." 

"You're  a  good  deal  impressed  by  her,  I  can 
see,"  said  the  painter,  with  exasperating 
satisfaction.  "I'm  serious,  though,  in  saying 
that  I'll  stand  out  of  the  way." 

"Oh,  I  didn't  know  you  were  in  the  way." 


' '  UNFINISHED."  157 

Venator  came  closer,  with  a  passionate  look 
in  his  eyes.  "I  was  infatuated  with  her,"  he 
declared,  vehemently.  "But  what's  the  use? 
It's  not  for  me.  I  am  too  old ;  I'm  miserable. 
Besides — " 

"Well?" 

"There's  something  about  her — I  don't  know 
what — that  always  makes  me  uneasy.  That's 
the  reason  I  couldn't  finish  my  picture.  But 
it  would  be  like  losing  a  piece  of  my  heart  to 
let  that  picture  go,  now." 

"You  decline  my  plan,  then?" 

"Absolutely." 

Faulder  contemplated  the  barren  floor  for  a 
while.  Slowly  he  brought  himself  to  put  his 
next  question.  "Suppose  a  peculiar  case,"  he 
began.  "If  relations  were  to  change,  if — well, 
to  put  it  plainly,  if  Miss  Hetwood  should  con- 
sent to  marry  me,  would  you  give  up  the  por- 
trait?" 

"You  !"  exclaimed  the  artist — ' 'you  marry 
her?  You're  incapable  of  it." 

"Incapable!"  echoed  the  young  man,  per- 
fectly dazed.  "What  right  have  you  to — what 
reason  is  there  for  your  opinion?" 


158  "  UNFINISHED. " 

"Do  you  want  it  in  all  its  nakedness?"  de- 
manded his  sardonic  vis-h-vis.  "Well,  then, 
you  strike  me  as  too  finical,  too  much  devoted 
to  appearances,  and  too  full  of  a  certain  kind 
of  Bostonism,  to  let  yourself  be  carried  that 
far.  Miss  Hetwood  will  never  accommodate 
herself  to  your  notions,  and  you  never  can 
adapt  yourself  to  her."  He  closed  with  a 
somewhat  fierce  stare,  which  Faulder  met  by  a 
short  laugh. 

"There's  only  one  thing  more  I  wish  to  say," 
remarked  the  latter,  dryly.  "Since  you're  so 
confident  of  my  incapacity,  you  can  hardly  re- 
fuse the  request  I've  just  made." 

Venator  winced.  He  saw  that  he  was  cor- 
nered. "Oh  yes,"  he  said,  affecting  careless- 
ness; "of  course,  if  she  marries  you,  I'll  let 
you  have  it." 

"Very  well,  I  sha'n't  forget,"  said  Faulder. 
"Good-morning." 

It  was  with  some  bewilderment  that,  as  he 
made  his  way  out,  he  recognized  how  he  had 
committed  himself  to  the  attitude  of  a  suitor. 
Certainly  he  had  not  defined  his  own  mood  be- 
fore he  entered  the  studio ;  but  it  was  rather  a 


"  UNFINISHED."  159 

relief  to  him  that  he  had  been  surprised  into 
doing  so. 

Several  calls  at  the  little  house  in  Brookline, 
however,  failed  to  produce  any  material  change 
in  the  situation,  except  that  he  came  to  know 
Candace  better.  She  attempted  to  play  on  the 
piano  for  him  one  evening,  and  plunged  charac- 
teristically into  a  Schubert  impromptu.  It 
went  off  brilliantly  at  first,  but  before  she  could 
get  through,  Candace  stumbled  wofully,  and  at 
last  left  the  piano  stool  in  a  fit  of  impatience, 
while  there  remained  many  bars  to  play.  "  I 
can't  do  it,"  she  declared — "I  can't  possibly." 

Faulder  was  amused,  and  tried  to  make  her 
conclude,  but  she  was  not  to  be  induced. 
Another  time  she  was  at  work  on  some 
embroidery  when  he  came ;  but  on  his  next 
appearance  he  found  that  she  had  abandoned 
it  in  the  midst,  and  had  begun  a  small  water- 
color  painting  of  some  flowers.  This  in  its 
turn  was  never  finished. 

"Why  don't  you  carry  something  through?" 
he  inquired,  disposed  to  take  her  to  task. 

"It's  not  in  me,"  was  her  answer.  "I  never 
could  do  anything  thoroughly  to  the  end.  Up 


I 60  "  UNFINISHED. " 

to  a  certain  point  I  can  do  very  well,  but  if  I 
were  to  go  on,  I  should  spoil  my  beginning.  So 
what's  the  use  of  my  trying  to  be  complete?" 

To  Faulder  this  was  a  new  idea.  For  all 
that,  he  thought  he  would  try  to  "form"  her 
mind  somewhat ;  so  he  investigated  her  reading. 
Finding  it  fragmentary  and  sensational,  he  ad- 
vised some  volumes  of  Motley,  and  insisted 
that  she  should  read  them  to  the  very  last 
page  as  a  discipline,  which  she  promised  to 
attempt.  He  waited  a  few  days,  and  when  he 
went  again,  Candace  hailed  him  with  impor- 
tant news. 

"I've  had  a  visit  from  your  sister  to-day," 
said  she. 

"Ah?"  Faulder  lifted  his  light  eyebrows. 
"How  did  you  like  her?" 

"What  a  strange  question !  I  couldn't  help 
liking  her  a  little,  you  know,  when  she  was  so 
kind  as  to  come  and  see  me." 

He  smiled  at  her  undiplomatic  honesty. 
"And  what  did  she  talk  about?" 

"Oh,  everything:  music — she  asked  me  if 
I'd  heard  the  new  prima  donna  Tricoti ;  and 
science — Darwin  on  earth-worms;  and  society 


' '  UNFINISHED. "  1 6 1 

— made  me  feel  how  few  people  I  knew.  Oh, 
Mr.  Faulder"  (she  never  would  call  him  "Doc- 
tor") "I  see  plainer  than  ever  that  I'm  a 
nobody."  The  poor  girl  seemed  to  be  on  the 
point  of  breaking  down  in  tearful  catastrophe, 
at  the  recollection  of  a  doubtless  trying  inter- 
view. 

"But  you  mustn't  mind  my  sister,"  said  he. 
"She's  only  a  nobody  too,  mounted  on  stilts." 

At  this  Candace  burst  into  a  cordial  laugh. 
"I  forgot :  there's  something  still  more  impor- 
tant," she  resumed.  "Mrs.  Crayshaw  has  in- 
vited me  to  her  next  kettledrum." 

As  Faulder  had  privately  asked  Mrs.  Cray- 
shaw to  do  this,  he  was  not  much  astonished. 

"Shall  you  go?"  he  asked;  and  Candace 
appearing  undecided,  he  offered  to  escort  her, 
with  his  sister. 

"Oh,  it  isn't  that,  so  much,"  she  explained ; 
"but  I'm  afraid  to  go.  I  don't  know  anybody, 
and  I  don't  know  anything." 

He  prevailed  upon  her  to  consent,  however. 
"And  how  comes  on  the  Motley?"  was  his 
next  question. 

"I  shall  never  accomplish  it,"  she  answered, 


1 6  2  "  UNFINISHED:' 

desperately.      "I've   stuck    in     the    first    vol- 
ume." 

The  young  man  had  an  inspiration.  "Let 
me  read  it  aloud  to  you,"  he  proposed.  "  Then 
you'll  get  through." 

Candace  was  delighted ;  and  they  began. 
But  before  they  had  concluded  a  single  chap- 
ter, Mr.  Hetwood  came  in;  and  that  stopped 
the  reading. 

Candace  went  to  the  kettledrum — not  in 
silk,  but  in  a  dress  of  white  nuns'  veiling  (for 
it  was  almost  springtime).  Scarcely  any  one 
knew  who  she  was,  yet  she  drew  decided 
notice,  and  Mrs.  Crayshaw  in  a  burst  of  gener- 
osity even  declared  that  she  was  more  beauti- 
ful than  her  portrait.  Still,  Candace  was  not 
at  ease :  she  felt  alone,  and  out  of  her  element, 
and  was  full  of  the  petty  awkwardnesses  of 
inexperience.  Over  and  over  she  caught  her- 
self in  some  careless,  half-slangy  phrase,  or  in 
saying  something  too  direct  and  earnest,  which 
gave  offense.  And  worst  of  all,  she  feared 
that  Faulder  noticed  her  short-comings  and 
was  displeased.  She  perceived  that  it  was  a 
mistake  attempting  to  move  among  these 


"  UNFINISHED. "  I 63 

people.  Impulsively,  without  even  saying 
good-afternoon  to  any  one,  she  departed. 
When  Faulder,  who  had  left  her  in  the  middle 
of  a  conversation,  came  back  to  continue  it, 
he  could  not  find  her.  He  was  vexed ;  and  to 
increase  his  irritation  he  overheard  his  sister 
and  Mrs.  Crayshaw  discussing  Miss  Hetwood 
in  the  most  patronizing  fashion. 

"I  can  not  understand,"  Henrietta  said  to 
him  afterward,  "how  you  can  maintain  your 
interest  in  this  Miss  Hetwood.  She  is  not  one 
of  our  world  at  all,  and  never  can  be." 

"Perhaps  the  decision  of  that  question  won't 
be  left  to  you,"  retorted  her  brother,  with 
Orphic  darkness. 

It  was  on  the  next  day  that  he  once  more 
presented  himself  before  Candace. 

"Don't  say  kettledrum  to  me  /"  she  ex- 
claimed. 

"Why  not?" 

"Oh,  I've  done  with  that  sort  of  thing.  I'd 
rather  live  in  a  garret  full  of  pictures,  like  Ven- 
ator, than  in  society." 

Faulder  began  to  wonder  if  she  had  all  along 
cherished  a  secret  attachment  to  the  grim  old 


1 64  "  UNFINISHED." 

artist.  She  seemed  to  be  slipping  out  of  his 
grasp.  "There  may  be  another  alternative 
than  the  garret,"  he  suggested. 

"What  one?"  asked  Candace,  with  indiffer- 
ence. "By  the  way,  you  haven't  seen  my  new 
accomplishment.  I'm  making  macrame  lace." 

"Ah,  that  will  be  very  pretty!  I'm  thinking 
of  getting  up  a  class  for  our  Motley  and  some 
other  books ;  and,  while  I  read,  you  can  make 
lace." 

He  watched  her  a  moment  or  two,  as  she 
showed  him  the  process.  Suddenly  she 
dropped  her  work,  saying : 

"  I  can't  do  that  knot.     Do  you  see  how?" 

"I  have  some  knack  at  tying,"  he  answered. 
Then  they  began  to  discuss  different  knots, 
and  he  explained  them  to  her.  "I've  helped 
you  with  these,"  he  said  at  length,  in  a  timid 
tone.  "There  is  another,  more  important  than 
all,  that  you  might  help  me  with." 

She  looked  puzzled  at  first;  but  he  soon 
made  his  meaning  clear,  as  much  by  his  gen- 
eral behavior,  and  the  way  he  looked  into  her 
eyes,  as  by  words.  Impulsively  he  took  one  of 
her  hands,  and  though  she  did  not  resist,  he 


' '  UNFINISHED. "  165 

as  quickly  released  it.  "No,  not  that  one,"  he 
exclaimed.  "The  other — the  unpainted  one." 

Half  inclined  to  sob,  Candace  burst  unex- 
pectedly into  laughter.  "What  in  the  world ! — 
the  unpainted  one?" 

"I  mean,"  he  stammered,  "the  one  that 
wasn't  in  the  picture.  I  want  it  now  for  my 
own." 

Venator  kept  his  promise.  As  Faulder's 
wife,  Candace  was  a  social  success ;  and  it  was 
remarkable  how  Mrs.  Crayshaw,  Henrietta,  and 
the  rest  now  discovered  that  what  they  had 
before  considered  a  want  of  "finish"  was  really 
charming  originality  and  refreshing  naivete1. 
Venator  not  only  made  a  wedding  present  of 
the  portrait,  but  also  offered  to  complete  it. 

"Not  for  the  world,"  responded  Faulder. 

And  so  the  picture  remains,  as  Candace  de- 
clares, a  symbol  of  their  love,  which  is  always 
to  be  "unfinished." 


MARCH   AND  APRIL 


I. 


CURIOUSLY  enough,  April  was  born  in 
September.  Old  Major  Maynadier  (he 
ought  to  have  been  named  Grenadier),  at  pres- 
ent retired  on  half  pay,  had  married  his  wife  in 
an  April,  and  was  not  ashamed  to  say  that 
that  month  was,  of  all  the  twelve,  the  dearest 
to  him  in  its  associations.  Therefore,  with  mili- 
tary precision,  he  resolved  that  his  first  child 
should  receive  in  baptism  the  name  given  to 
the  fourth  division  of  the  calendar.  It  was  ex- 
ceedingly lucky  that  the  first  child  proved  to 
be  a  girl ;  because,  if  it  had  been  a  boy,  the 
Major's  idea  of  discipline  would  not  have  per- 
mitted any  infraction  of  the  order  which  he 
had  issued,  and  the  boy  would  have  had  to 
carry  through  life  the  title  which  the  Major 
had  fixed  upon. 

166 


MARCH  AND  APRIL.  167 

By  an  odd  conjunction,  Mr.  Lowe,  his  next 
neighbor  on  the  banks  of  the  Hudson  (near 
Yonkers),  who  was  an  intimate  friend  of  the 
Major's,  had  a  boy,  born  a  year  before,  whom 
he  had  christened  March,  in  compliment  to  an 
aristocratic  relative. 

The  Lowes  and  the  Maynadiers  saw  a  great 
deal  of  each  other;  the  members  of  the  two 
households  going  to  and  fro  across  the  stretch 
of  lawn  and  fields  and  the  quiet  turnpike  that 
separated  them,  with  as  little  ceremony  as  if 
they  all  lived  on  one  estate  and  belonged  to  a 
single  family.  They  never  took  the  trouble  to 
balance  the  account  of  visits  exchanged,  but 
gave  and  received  hospitalities  with  that  free- 
dom which  attaches  to  the  gifts  we  most  value 
and  are  unwilling  to  mark  with  a  price.  The 
quiet  turnpike  just  mentioned  was  no  obstacle 
to  this  pleasant  intercourse,  though  it  divided 
the  Major's  farm  from  Mr.  Lowe's  country 
seat.  But  it  was  so  very  quiet  that  the  town 
decided  to  make  a  new  road,  which  would  be 
more  traveled,  and  abandon  this  one.  The 
new  road  was  made ;  the  old  one  fell  into  dis- 
use; but  from  the  day  that  this  happened,  the 


1 68  MARCH  AND  APRIL. 

boundary — no  longer  a  boundary — so  easily 
crossed  before,  became  the  subject  of  dispute 
between  the  two  families,  and  separated  them 
as  it  never  could  have  done  while  it  remained 
a  highway. 

The  question  was,  to  whom  did  the  road 
belong  now  that  it  was  given  up  by  the  public? 
According  to  law,  of  course,  it  reverted  to  the 
original  owner  of  the  land,  or  his  successor; 
but  the  date  of  its  construction  was  so  far 
back,  in  Revolutionary  times,  that  it  proved 
hard  to  ascertain  positively  who  the  original 
owner  had  been.  A  diligent  searching  of 
titles  ensued,  with  much  thumbing  of  dusty 
tomes  at  the  Registry  of  Deeds,  and  collecting 
of  collateral  evidence.  But  some  of  the  old 
landmarks  by  which  the  boundaries  of  the 
properties  had  been  described  were  missing 
now,  and  the  whole  matter  was  involved  in 
just  enough  uncertainty  to  make  each  claimant 
perfectly  sure  that  he  was  in  the  right.  When 
things  had  reached  this  pass,  Mr.  Lowe  came 
over  to  call  on  the  Major,  one  day,  and  met 
that  officer  on  the  path  to  the  front  door. 

"I  had  just  started  to  go  and  see  you,"  said 


MARCH  AND  APRIL.  169 

Major  Maynadier,  politely,  but  without  ex- 
tending his  hand  or  smiling. 

"That's  singular,"  said  Lowe.  "On  the 
same  errand,  I  wonder?" 

"I  don't  know,"  was  the  answer.  "I  was 
going  to  speak  about  the — ah — the  old  road." 

"So  was  I !"  rejoined  Lowe,  in  a  hearty 
tone,  as  if  it  were  the  most  delightful  of 
topics. 

He  was  a  broad-chested,  vigorous  man, 
whose  cheeks  glowed  like  rosy  embers  from 
among  the  mingled  black  and  ashen  hues  of 
his  beard ;  while  the  beard,  long  and  copious, 
had  a  manner  of  growing  that  made  it  look  as 
if  it  were  blown  backward  by  a  strong  wind, 
against  which  he  was  determined  to  prevail. 

The  Major,  on  the  contrary,  was  rather  thin ; 
his  face  was  cleared  of  all  hairy  impedimenta 
except  a  small,  severe  mustache.  But  he  was 
as  firm  and  upright  as  a  palisade.  Although 
he  might  not  be  at  his  best  in  an  attack,  it  was 
evident  that  on  the  defensive  he  would  hold 
out  forever.  "Very  well,"  he  remarked,  be- 
coming more  conciliatory  than  at  first,  "since 
we  have  the  same  object  in  view — " 


17°  MARCH  AND  APRIL. 

"Let  us  hope  that  the  same  views  will  be  an 
object  to  us,"  Lowe  threw  in,  playfully. 

"Suppose  we  step  into  the  house,"  the 
Major  continued,  feeling  that  the  jest  was  ill- 
timed,  "and  talk  it  over." 

They  betook  themselves  to  the  "office,"  which 
in  spite  of  its  rigorous  name,was  a  pleasant  room, 
furnished  with  books  and  having  windows  that 
overlooked  the  Hudson.  April  was  there — a 
bright-haired  girl  of  eight  years — nestled  in  one 
of  the  window-seats,  reading  a  book. 

"We  shall  have  to  disturb  you,  pet,"  said  her 
father.  "Mr.  Lowe  and  I  are  going  to  talk 
business." 

The  child  rose;  a  charming  little  thing  she 
was ;  but  the  corners  of  her  mouth  showed  her 
disappointment. 

"What!  no  kiss  for  your  old  uncle?"  cried 
Lowe,  catching  her  on  her  way  to  the  door. 
"What  are  you  reading,  dear — poetry?  Why, 
you  don't  need  any  poetry — at  your  age." 

"But  I  like  it,"  said  April. 

"So  do  I,"  he  rashly  asserted.  "At  least,  I  like 
you :  and  that  will  do  just  as  well,  won't  it?" 

So  the  small  face  was  lost  for  a  moment  in 


MARCH  AND  APRIL.  I? I 

the  cloud  of  Lowe's  beard;  and  when  the 
cloud  was  withdrawn  little  April  danced  away 
to  the  door,  smiling. 

Maynadier  somehow  felt  that  his  friend  was 
taking  advantage  of  him  by  this  proceeding. 
And  yet,  wasn't  it  perfectly  natural  and  cus- 
tomary? He  sighed,  without  knowing  it. 

"Here  is  the  map,"  he  announced,  sitting 
down  at  the  table.  "I  have  looked  up  the  whole 
thing,  and  put  signs  here  to  show  the  old  land- 
marks. As  a  matter  of  fact,  a  careful  measure- 
ment has  convinced  me  not  only  that  the  road 
belongs  to  my  farm,  but  that  my  rights  extend  a 
little  into  your  present  inclosures.  There  was  a 
mistake  made  in  running  fences,  long  ago." 

"Oh,  come,  Maynadier!  isn't  that  a  little 
steep?  Excuse  me,"  Lowe  added;  "I  mustn't 
get  ruffled.  My  desire  is  to  consult  amicably. 
You  may  have  made  a  mistake  yourself,  you 
know.  But,  even  admitting  that  you  haven't, 
you  surely  remember  that  when  you  bought 
this  estate  I  released  a  small  claim  which  I  had 
on  the  Butternut  field.  I  wanted  you  for  a 
neighbor,  and  preferred  to  be  courteous." 

"Certainly,     Lowe,    I    remember.       I    was 


1 72  MARCH  AND  APRIL. 

about  to  say  that,  in  consideration  of  that,  I 
give  up  my  claim  to  the  strip  of  land  I'm 
speaking  of.  So  we  start  square  as  to  the  road." 

"But  the  road,"  said  the  other,  leaning  for- 
ward with  his  blowy  beard  against  his  chest, 
and  looking  resolute,  "the  road  is  as  much 
mine  as  yours.  According  to  my  view  of  it 
the  old  line  ran  somewhat  crooked,  but,  virtu- 
ally, it  gave  the  major  part  to  me." 

Maynadier  regarded  him  with  a  grim  smile. 

"The  Major  part,"  he  said,  "is  exactly  mine." 

Lowe  laughed,  but  uneasily. 

"I  wasn't  punning,"  he  said ;  "I  didn't  mean 
that." 

"But  I  did,"  said  Maynardier  doggedly. 

"Well,"  resumed  his  neighbor,  "let's  see  how 
you  make  it  out.  What's  this?"  He  put  his  finger 
on  the  map.  "The  old  'tree  scarred  by  lightning,' 
mentioned  in  the  ancient  deeds?  You  know  there 
is  no  trace  of  it  left.  How  can  you  locate  it?" 

The  Major  became  reticent. 

"I've  got  evidence  enough,"  he  declared. 

"All  right,"  said  Lowe.  "Suppose,  now,  I 
were  to  show  you  a  weak  spot  in  your  de- 
fenses. You  know  the  hollow  by  your  gate?" 


MARCH  AND  APRIL.  1 73 

"Yes,  yes.  What  about  it?"  Maynadier  in- 
quired eagerly. 

"Well,  sir,"  Lowe  replied,  "I  can  prove  that 
my  line  should  extend  from  the  granite  bowl- 
der one  furlong  and  two  chains  to  that  very 
spot ;  thence  westerly — " 

"How  can  you?"  demanded  the  Major. 

"That's  my  affair,"  his  friend  answered,  lean- 
ing back  with  an  obvious  inclination  to  chuckle. 

The  Major  sprang  up,  impatient.  "Good 
heavens!"  he  cried,  sorrowfully.  "Have  we 
gone  so  far  that  one  old  friend  is  concealing  infor- 
mation from  the  other,  as  if  we  were  in  court?" 

"Not  one  old  friend,"  Lowe  pointed  out,  "but 
two.  We're  both  in  the  same  box,  Maynadier." 

"Lord,  yes !  the  witness  box,  I  should  think," 
groaned  the  Major. 

"It  is  absurd,"  Lowe  confessed,  somewhat 
touched.  "Let  us  see.  We  have  both  got 
along  hitherto  without  owning  the  road.  What 
do  you  say  to  dropping  the  question,  and  leav- 
ing the  whole  confounded  lane  as  it  is?" 

"Impossible,"  was  the  reply.  "If  it's  com- 
mon property  some  one  will  invade  it.  Be- 
sides, though  we  agreed,  our  children  might  not." 


174  MARCH  AND  APRIL. 

"Ah,  yes!  the  children,"  Lowe  repeated, 
thinking  of  his  sturdy  boy  March,  whose  ruddy 
cheeks  and  tawny  hair,  he  had  often  thought, 
would  make  a  fine  accompaniment  to  April's 
more  delicate  beauty,  if  the  two  should  con- 
clude to  be  husband  and  wife  by  and  by. 
"Oh,  well,"  he  went  on,  growling  a  prelude  to 
concession,  "it  isn't  worth  while  quarreling. 
Don't  let's  be  a  pair  of  fools,  old  man !"  He 
didn't  consider  that  he  himself  could  be  a  fool 
under  any  circumstances ;  so  it  was  rather  gen- 
erous to  assume  that  he  might  possibly  be. 

"I  admit  that  it's  foolish  in  one  sense,"  said 
the  Major,  with  pained  dignity.  "The  land  is 
not  much  account,  anyway." 

"True,"  said  Lowe,  going  to  the  fire  and 
warming  his  back,  as  if  to  thaw  himself  into 
magnanimity.  "Hang  it!  I'd  almost  as  lief  let 
you  have  it  all." 

"Why,  Lowe,"  exclaimed  the  other,  "that's 
more  like  your  old  self!" 

"  I  say  almost  as  lief,"  his  friend  proceeded. 
"But  that  would  hardly  be  fair.  So  I  think 
we'd  better  divide  evenly." 

Maynadier's  face  contracted  with  the  invol- 


MARCH  AND  APRIL.  1 75 

untary  surmise  that  his  neighbor  was  taking  an 
easy  way  out  of  a  weak  position.  He  turned 
and  gazed  stonily  through  the  window,  his 
eyes  resting  on  the  silent  river,  which  seemed 
to  emblemize  the  stream  of  misunderstanding 
that  was  slowly  widening  between  his  neighbor 
and  himself. 

"  I  can't  do  it !"  he  exclaimed,  at  length. 
"We  should  never  be  quite  satisfied,  either  of 
us.  And  then — it  wouldn't  be  right,  you 
know.  I  hate  to  have  any  difficulty  with  you, 
Lowe,  and  would  make  a  sacrifice  to  avoid  it  if 
I  could.  But  this  is  an  affair  of  rights.  One 
of  us  ought  to  have  the  whole  or  nothing. 
Which  of  us  is  it  to  be?" 

"By  George!  It  isn't  going  to  be  the  one 
that's  not  entitled  to  it,"  Lowe  declared,  set- 
ting his  teeth.  He  walked  the  length  of  the 
room  and  back — always  with  that  appearance 
of  contending  against  an  obstinate  breeze. 
"I've  done  all  /could;  and  I'm  bitterly  disap- 
pointed in  you.  Why,  you  won't  yield  an 
inch !  You're  about  as  pliable  as  a  jack-knife — 
only  one  hinge  in  you,  and  when  that  moves 
you  cut  whatever  you  come  down  upon.  You 


176  MARCH  AND  APRIL. 

want  to  cut  it  square  off.  That's  what  you're 
going  to  do  to  our  friendship." 

The  Major  repressed  his  wrath,  but  it  came 
out  plainly  in  his  words:  "Mr.  Lowe,  violence 
isn't  going  to  help  us.  If  you  want  to  dispute 
my  title,  do  so  in  the  proper  place  and  accord- 
ing to  the  proper  forms.  The  business-like 
way  is  the  legal  way." 

"Oh,  yes!"  retorted  Lowe,  "I  know  that. 
You  shall  have  plenty  of  'the  legal  way'  before 
we  get  through.  But  the  responsibility  is  not 
mine — only  the  land  is,"  he  flung  back,  after 
gaining  the  threshold. 

The  door  closed  quietly  behind  the  tumult 
in  which  he  rushed  off. 

He  did  not  enter  the  house  again  for  twelve 
years. 

The  first  phase  of  the  combat,  after  this 
interview,  was  that  the  Major  continued  to  use 
the  old  road  as  a  means  of  communication  with 
the  new  turnpike,  though  Lowe  had,  on  his 
part,  laid  out  a  new  driveway  for  his  own 
house.  Accordingly,  before  long,  Lowe  re- 
sorted to  the  courts,  and  obtained  a  tempo- 
rary injunction  forbidding  the  Major  to  use 


MARCH  AND  APRIL.  1 77 

the  road ;  so  that  Maynadier  had  to  open  a 
new  approach  to  his  farm.  Then  Lowe  put 
up  signs  at  the  two  points  where  the  old  route 
passed  his  territory,  warning  trespassers.  His 
antagonist  immediately  erected  rival  sign- 
boards. Next,  the  Major  executed  a  strategi- 
cal movement.  He  pulled  down  his  fence — 
which  was  a  cheap  post  and  rail  construction, 
quite  old  and  out  of  repair — along  the  whole 
border  on  that  side,  so  as  to  include  the  dis- 
puted ground  with  his  own. 

Now,  Lowe  was  in  much  better  circumstan- 
ces than  his  neighbor,  and  had  an  excellent 
fence  of  iron  to  mark  his  side  of  the  way :  con- 
sequently he  was  much  averse  to  imitating  the 
enemy's  tactics  when  destruction  was  resorted 
to.  But  his  case  against  Maynadier  had,  mean- 
while, come  to  trial,  and  was  proceeding  very 
slowly.  He  lost  patience;  could  not  endure 
the  quiet  exultation  with  which  the  defendant 
was  seen,  nearly  every  day,  pacing  about  and 
contemplating  the  little  breadth  of  dirt  which 
he  had  added  to  his  fields ;  and  the  upshot  was 
that  the  iron  fence  had  to  come  down,  though 
each  separate  stake  in  it  inflicted  a  wound 


I?8  MARCH  AND  APRIL. 

upon  the  owner's  mind.  The  limits  of  the 
rival  domains  were  now  traced  only  by  a  few 
stone  sockets  on  Lowe's  side,  and  by  a  row  of 
old  tent-pegs  on  the  Major's.  But  the  plaintiff 
at  least  gained  the  satisfaction  of  seeing  that 
the  defendant  no  longer  prowled  along  the 
roadway  with  an  air  of  proprietorship. 

Such  folly  may  seem  incredible ;  but  a  real 
estate  quarrel — especially  when  the  subject  is 
of  petty  dimensions — must  always  be  classed 
among  the  acutest  cases  of  disagreement.  The 
dumb  earth,  under  such  circumstances,  has  a 
way  of  reasserting  a  primeval  power  over  the 
human  clay  that  goes  around  asserting  lordship 
of  the  soil  from  which  it  was  molded. 

The  Lowes,  when  speaking  to  acquaint- 
ances, derisively  alluded  to  the  deserted  high- 
way as  "the  Major  part."  And  the  Maynadiers, 
with  equal  sarcasm,  called  it  the  "Lowe-lands 
— very  low  indeed." 

"It  is  amazing,"  said  Mrs.  Maynadier  to 
her  husband,  "that  a  man  who  seems  so  much 
a  gentleman  as  Mr.  Lowe,  and  is  so  earnest  a 
Churchman,  should  have  been  so  aggressive." 

"Yes,  it  is,"  the  Major  assented.     "After  all, 


MARCH  AND  APRIL.  179 

I  shouldn't  have  pressed  the  matter  very  far 
if  he  had  simply  allowed  me  to  use  the  place 
as  a  private  drive." 

"And  then  too,"  his  wife  rejoined,  "he  is 
rich,  and  we  are  comparatively  poor.  He 
doesn't  really  need  the  land." 

"No,"  said  the  Major;  "but  what  can  you 
expect  ?  Those  wealthy  people  are  very  apt 
to  be  like  that." 

On  the  other  hand,  Mrs.  Lowe  said  to  Mr. 
Lowe:  "It's  always  so,  John.  If  you  inter- 
fere with  another  man  so  far  as  to  help  him, 
he's  sure  to  be  ungrateful.  The  great  mistake 
was,  your  doing  Major  Maynadier  that  favor 
about  the  Butternut  field." 

"I  suppose  it  was,"  sighed  Lowe.  "I'm  sure 
this  is  a  very  small  matter  we're  fighting 
about;  but  there's  a  principle  involved.  He 
wouldn't  meet  me  half-way."  Here  Mr.  Lowe 
grasped  more  firmly  the  newspaper  he  had 
been  reading,  and  rustled  it  in  a  fashion  sug- 
gestive of  an  aroused  moral  sense.  "I  assure 
you,  my  dear,  I  don't  feel  any  bitterness.  But 
I'm  going  to  beat  him,  if  it  takes  five  years!" 

Thus    the    two    families    continued,    in  the 


l8o  MARCH  AND  APRIL. 

midst  of  strife,  to  be  very  forgiving — toward 
themselves. 

They  worshiped  in  the  same  church ;  went 
to  see  the  same  people;  attended  the  same 
parties,  very  often;  but  all  direct  intercourse 
was  broken  off  between  them,  and  they  ceased 
to  recognize  each  other.  Maynadier,  as  well 
as  Lowe,  had  entertained  a  dream — the  future 
union  of  his  daughter  and  young  March  Lowe ; 
but  such  a  scheme  as  that  was  now  out  of  the 
question,  and  he  shivered  as  he  thought  of  the 
mistake  he  might  have  made  in  encouraging  it. 
The  children,  of  course,  were  instructed  in 
the  mysteries  of  the  dissension,  so  far  as  they 
could  understand  them;  and  the  struggle  of 
the  two  houses,  with  its  blighting  effect  on 
their  own  former  friendship,  overshadowed 
everything  else  in  its  malign  importance.  It 
took  its  place  in  their  minds  among  the  great 
controversies  of  the  world  which  they  were 
then  studying — the  rivalry  of  Caesar  with  Pom- 
pey,  and  the  like;  for  children  regard  these 
troubles  more  seriously  and  with  more  suf- 
fering than  we  commonly  remember  that 
they  do. 


MARCH  AND  APRIL.  l8l 

Mr.  Lowe  won  his  case ;  but  it  was  carried 
higher  on  exceptions,  and  ultimately  was 
started  on  its  slow  way  to  the  Court  of  Ap- 
peals. Then,  too,  the  Major  found  an  excuse 
for  bringing  a  suit  as  plaintiff  against  Lowe; 
the  proceedings  were  postponed;  endless  de- 
lays occurred ;  not  only  five  years  passed,  but 
ten ;  and  still  the  two  men  were  locked  in  their 
wrestlers'  embrace,  until  it  seemed  that  they 
were  likely  to  become  petrified  in  that  atti- 
tude. 

Meanwhile  the  disused  road  underwent 
changes,  and  became  a  narrow  belt  of  shaggy 
growth  between  the  two  properties.  Nature 
had  taken  a  hint,  and,  despite  the  leveling  of 
artificial  barriers,  had  reared  a  makeshift  bar- 
rier on  her  own  account.  The  obsolete  ruts 
were  completely  matted  in  grass  and  wild  flow- 
ers. Then  shrubs  sprang  up;  a  haphazard 
plantation  of  small  trees  was  created.  The 
green-brier  tangled  its  thorny  vine  and  glossy 
leaves  over  the  larger  growth;  sharp-savored 
barberries  flourished  by  the  stone  remnants  of 
Lowe's  fence ;  and,  being  little  molested  there, 
birds  made  their  nests  among  the  thickets. 


1 82  MARCH  AND  APRIL. 

Finally,  the  wonted  trail  of  human  travel  was 
transformed  into  a  winding  tract  of  bloom  and 
branch,  full  of  song  and  perfume,  but  rarely 
invaded  by  the  foot  of  man  or  woman. 

By  the  time  the  frontier  war  had  gone  on 
for  nearly  twelve  years,  it  became  so  monot- 
onous that  the  two  belligerents  grew  languid 
in  its  prosecution,  and  treated  it  as  a  weari- 
some matter  of  course.  But  while  the  old 
folks  stood  comparatively  still,  March  and 
April  had  been  rapidly  advancing  to  the  dan- 
gerous period  when  courtships  may  be  ex- 
pected ;  and  their  parents  showed  a  great  anx- 
iety to  keep  them  out  of  each  other's  sight. 
March  was  sent  to  St.  Paul's  School,  in  New 
Hampshire;  and  when  he  came  home  for  the 
long  holidays,  either  the  Maynadiers  rented 
their  place  and  went  away,  or  else  it  happened 
with  suspicious  regularity  that  April  had  to 
make  visits  at  a  distance.  At  last  March  went 
to  Harvard  and  April  was  established  at  Vas- 
sar.  Naturally,  she  was  a  little  the  more  rapid 
in  developing,  and  they  both  graduated  at 
about  the  same  time ;  but  they  had  so  seldom 
been  in  the  same  place  together,  for  several 


MARCH  AND  APRIL.  183 

years  past,  that  it  would  not  have  been  aston- 
ishing if  they  had  not  known  each  other  on 
meeting.  And  it  was  nearly  as  difficult  for 
them  to  meet  as  it  would  be  for  the  prophetic 
male  and  female  figures  of  the  old-fashioned 
barometer,  one  of  whom  is  always  shut  up 
when  the  other  is  out. 

The  young  man  was  decidedly  handsome ;  a 
large,  athletic  fellow,  with  strong,  frank  feat- 
ures, of  whom  his  mother  sometimes  com- 
plained that  he  was  vehement  to  roughness. 
At  other  times,  however,  he  could  be  as  gentle 
as  any  one  might  wish.  He  liked  to  wear  a 
velvet  coat  and  stalk  around  at  his  ease ;  and 
although  he  had  tried  the  severest  measures 
for  taming  his  leonine  hair,  even  to  cropping 
it,  he  had  given  up  the  struggle  and  now 
allowed  it  to  tumble  over  his  ears  and  forehead 
as  it  would,  in  a  way  appropriate  to  his  impet- 
uous character.  It  was  said  that  he  was  rather 
wild  at  college ;  rumors  whereof  coming  to  the 
knowledge  of  the  Major,  that  officer  remarked 
to  his  second-in-command :  "We  see  now,  my 
dear,  how  fortunate  it  is  that  all  possibility  of 
a  match  with  Prillie  was  shut  off  long  ago. 


1 84  MARCH  AND  APRIL. 

Really,  this  quarrel  may  have  been  a  good 
providence." 

"Yes,"  said  Mrs.  Maynadier,  accepting  the 
opinion  as  it  were  on  the  point  of  her  crochet 
needle,  and  working  it  firmly  into  the  texture 
of  an  afghan  she  was  making.  "Oh,  if  it  had 
happened  the  other  way !" 

But  in  another  respect  the  providence  was 
not  so  favorable.  For  the  Major's  litigation 
had  been  a  serious  expense  to  him ;  he  could 
not  afford  the  depletion:  his  house  and  farm 
had  both  been  running  down,  growing  more 
and  more  shabby. 

The  two  young  people  had  their  own  opin- 
ions of  the  complication.  April,  at  the  age  of 
ten,  used  to  wish  she  were  a  boy  so  that  she 
could  fight  and  thrash  their  neighbor's  son; 
she  considered  him,  next  to  his  father,  the 
most  detestable  person  on  earth.  At  present, 
having  had  a  liberal  education,  she  exonerated 
him  entirely.  March  also,  who  had  once  been 
consumed  with  rage  and  bitterness  against  the 
Maynadiers,  came  back  from  college  with  a 
nobly  impartial  mind,  and  was  disposed  to 
smile  indulgently  upon  the  foolishness  of  his 


MARCH  AND  APRIL.  185 

parents  and  their  enemies.  At  the  same  time 
both  were  anxious  not  to  be  disloyal  to  their 
respective  elders;  and  so  they  had  to  keep 
these  opinions  to  themselves. 

That  summer,  when  they  had  both  just 
graduated,  the  estrangement  between  them 
was  supposed  to  be  so  completely  established 
that  precautions  were  relaxed.  Lowe  said  to 
his  wife:  "  I'll  be  hanged  if  I'll  live  any  longer 
under  this  terrorism.  March  won't  see  any- 
thing of  the  girl  any  way,  and  if  he  does, 
there's  no  danger  now.  He  must  pass  the 
summer  here."  The  Major  arrived  at  a  corre- 
sponding decision.  "I  can't  find  a  tenant  for 
the  place  this  year,"  he  said :  "and,  besides, 
why  should  we  always  be  running  away  or 
sending  Prillie  away?  It  amounts  simply  to 
being  tyrannized  over  by  this  man  Lowe.  I 
won't  submit  to  it !  If  he  doesn't  want  to  keep 
his  young  cub  here,  I'll  let  him  settle  that  for 
himself." 

Consequently,  April  stayed  too;  and  the 
two  old  gentlemen  rejoiced  in  the  idea  that 
they  were  offering  a  mutual  defiance. 


1 86  MARCH  AND  APRIL. 


II. 

March  strolled  down  to  the  remoter  end  of 
the  old  lane  one  afternoon,  carrying  his  gun 
with  the  purpose  of  firing  at  a  mark.  Looking 
for  some  suitable  target,  he  came  suddenly 
upon  the  Major's  forgotten  trespass-signboard. 
It  was  battered  and  defaced,  and  brought  back 
a  boyish  memory  to  him.  "Funny  thing!"  he 
said  aloud;  "I  had  almost  forgotten  the  time 
when  I  came  down  here  and  threw  rocks  at 
that  board.  Gosh !  how  I  hated  it  then ! 
Well,  there's  the  M  for  Maynadier  left  yet: 
that'll  do  first-rate  for  a  mark,  if  I  can  only 
get  a  clear  range."  His  father's  opposition 
sign  stood  not  far  from  the  other,  intact,  but 
he  was  averse  to  attacking  that;  so,  after 
selecting  his  position,  he  opened  upon  the  M 
with  his  breech-loader,  and  demolished  it  in  a 
few  shots.  After  this,  the  amusement  palled 
upon  him.  He  laid  his  gun  aside,  sat  upon  a 
bank  of  sward,  and  began  to  meditate.  He 
could  not  help  thinking  that  he  had  done  an 
absurd  thing,  in  blazing  away  at  the  old  sign- 


MARCH  AND  APRIL.  187 

board,  which  he  really  had  no  right  to  mal- 
treat. True,  the  whole  situation  between  his 
father  and  the  Major  was  absurd ;  but  ought 
he  to  allow  himself  to  share  in  it?  He  won- 
dered what  April  was  like ;  it  was  a  long  time 
now  since  he  had  even  caught  a  passing 
glimpse  of  her. 

Suddenly  there  was  a  rustling  in  the  bushes 
not  far  away,  which  caused  him  to  spring  up ; 
and  the  next  moment  he  beheld  a  young 
woman's  figure  emerging  from  behind  a  leafy 
covert,  to  pass  across  the  space  that  intervened 
before  another  thicket,  on  the  way  toward  the 
Major's  house.  A  shape  so  lithe  and  graceful 
that,  clad  as  it  was  in  a  close  dress  of  evanes- 
cent green,  it  made  him  fancy  for  an  instant 
that  the  visible  spirit  of  Springtime  stood  be- 
fore him,  waywardly  returning  out  of  season ! 
March  had  been  so  noiseless,  even  in  rising  to 
his  feet,  that  the  girl  was  within  arm's  length 
before  she  saw  him.  With  a  quick  turn  of  her 
head  she  started,  then  stood  still,  trembling 
inwardly  as  if  in  unison  with  the  black-birch 
sapling  beside  her,  which  still  quivered  from 
the  touch  she  had  given  it  in  passing. 


l  MARCH  AND  APRIL. 

March  bowed,  holding  his  little  round  cap 
in  his  hand.  "Miss  Maynadier?"  he  said,  with 
a  questioning  inflection,  though  he  was  in  no 
manner  of  doubt.  "I  hope  I  didn't  startle 
you?" 

With  the  faintest  ripple  of  disdain  on  her 
lips,  April  answered,  "Oh,  not — not  at  all;" 
her  involuntary  double  negative  giving  truth- 
fulness to  the  statement. 

"I  meant,"  said  he,  embarrassed  for  his  own 
part,  "by  my  shooting.  Did  you  hear  the 
gun?" 

"Yes ;  but  I  wasn't  frightened ;  I  was  some 
distance  away  then.  I — I  didn't  know  it  was 
you." 

"Then  you  would  have  been  frightened,"  he 
queried,  attempting  to  smile,  "if  you  had 
known  who  it  was?" 

"That  doesn't  follow,"  she  returned,  dis- 
tantly. She  gathered  her  dress  in  one  hand, 
to  go. 

"I  thought  no  one  ever  came  through  here," 
he  said.  "Otherwise  I  wouldn't  have  done 
such  a  thing  as  to  shoot." 

"I    seldom    come,"    April     informed     him, 


MARCH  AND  APRIL.  189 

coldly.  "It  only  happened  that  I  had  been 
down  the  road  to  see  a  poor  woman ;  and  I 
thought  I  was  perfectly  safe  in  walking  on  my 
father's  land." 

A  shadow  seemed  to  cross  the  young  man's 
face,  thrown  from  a  threatening  cloud ;  but  he 
mustered  resolution  and  dispelled  it.  "Don't 
let  us  discuss  the  question  of  ownership,"  said 
he.  "Why  should  we  keep  that  up?" 

His  expression  was  so  candid  and  friendly, 
she  feared  lest  he  should  offer  to  shake  hands 
across  the  old  roadway,  and  she  answered  in 
haste:  "It  is  very  unfortunate  that  we  have 
met  here,  Mr.  Lowe." 

"The  misfortune,"  he  replied,  "is  that  we 
should  meet  so  like  strangers.  But  you  may 
be  sure  of  one  thing,  Miss  Maynadier:  there  is 
no  danger  of  my  shooting  anywhere  in  this 
neighborhood  again.  Wherever  you  choose 
to  walk — no  matter  who  owns  the  land — I  shall 
consider  the  place  sacred." 

It  sounded  fearfully  bold ;  he  had  not  fore- 
seen at  all  that  he  was  about  to  speak  so 
strongly ;  but  he  was  always  going  head  over 
heels,  and,  besides,  the  magic  of  April's  pres- 


19°  MARCH  AND  APRIL. 

ence  somehow  charmed  the  words  from  him 
before  he  was  aware.  April  herself  was 
thrilled  by  them ;  but  she  said  only,  "You 
seem  to  forget  that  we  are  strangers.  We 
really  have  no  right  to  be  talking  here.  I  am 
going." 

Her 'voice  was  low  and  fluttering,  like  the 
notes  of  a  bird  in  the  surprise  and  distress  of 
actual  capture. 

"Wait  one  moment,"  he  pressed  her.  "Did 
you  notice  the  mark  I  had  been  firing  at?" 

"No — oh,  yes;  that  was  it — the  old  sign.  I 
saw  it  was  freshly  splintered.  It's  a  shame  to 
destroy  poor  papa's  property;  for  you  must 
admit  that  that  belongs  to  him."  And  pretty 
April  flushed  with  an  indignation  which  she 
would  have  been  glad  to  relieve  by  sobs. 

"I  do  admit  it,"  said  March,  with  a  contri- 
tion that  made  him  handsomer  than  ever; 
"and  I'm  sony  I  did  it.  Please  believe  me,  it 
was  purely  thoughtless." 

"Thank  you,"  said  April  sweetly,  brightening 
again  at  once.  "Another  time  you'd  better 
fire  at  your  father's  sign."  Instantly  after- 
ward, to  his  astonishment,  she  fled  at  a  run- 


MARCH  AND  APRIL.  191 

ning  pace  and  was  out  of  sight,  before  he  could 
decide  from  the  sound  with  which  she  ended 
whether  she  was  laughing  or  crying. 

The  interview  had  been  so  unexpected  and 
brief  that  he  could  have  doubted  her  being 
there  at  all.  Was  it  really  April  whose  voice 
he  had  heard,  or  only  the  summer  breeze  mur- 
muring over  the  verdant  maize,  patting  the 
little  faces  of  the  upturned  leaves  till  they 
smiled  and  shook  in  the  sunlight?  The  sun 
shone  so  brightly  on  the  moving  twigs  and 
branches  among  which  she  had  stood,  that  he 
was  dazzled,  and  felt  as  if  he  had  been  convers- 
ing with  an  illusion. 

But  there  was  no  illusion  about  the  hapless 
target.  A  great  row  ensued  when  the  Major 
discovered  what  had  been  done  to  it.  His 
lawyer  immediately  wrote  to  Lowe's  lawyer 
demanding  reparation,  and  Lowe's  lawyer 
wrote  back  a  refusal;  and  there  was  every 
prospect  of  a  new  minor  suit  for  trespass  and 
damages.  March  promptly  concluded  that 
April  had  told  her  father  of  their  meeting  and 
his  confession ;  but  it  cut  him  to  the  heart  to 
think  so.  Evidently  the  encounter  was  not  to 


I92  MARCH  AND  APRIL. 

her  a  treasured,  secret  episode,  as  it  was  to 
him.  But  why  should  she  have  been  so  mean 
as  to  "tell  on"  him?  That  had  not  been  her 
custom  when  she  was  a  little  girl.  He 
stormed  and  complained  about  it  to  himself  in 
strict  retirement,  but  presently  reflected :  "Oh, 
well,  we're  not  children  now,  and  people 
change  so  as  they  grow  up.  She's  a  woman, 
too.  Women  don't  understand  honor  in  our 
sense."  In  the  end  he  took  a  daring  resolve. 

The  Major,  the  next  day,  ran  against  a  tor- 
pedo in  the  shape  of  an  innocent  visiting-card 
bearing  the  words  "March  Lowe."  After  the 
first  shock  he  inspected  the  seemingly  explo- 
sive card  more  closely,  and  began  to  think  he 
had  mistaken  its  nature :  it  was  probably  a  flag 
of  truce,  bringing  notice  of  surrender.  "Show 
the  gentleman  in,"  said  he  to  the  alarmed 
servant. 

March  came  in,  quiet  as  a  lamb.  He  had 
brushed  his  belligerent  hair  into  peaceful 
order,  and  was  dressed  with  punctilious  perfec- 
tion. He  came  to  offer  an  apology  for  his 
assault  upon  the  non-combatant  signboard, 
and  to  say  that  he,  not  his  father,  was  the 


MARCH  AND  APRIL.  193 

offender ;  it  was  his  own  affair,  and  he  begged 
to  put  up  a  new  board  at  his  own  expense. 
The  Major  was  amazed,  flustered,  pleased,  and 
yet  fearful  that  he  might  compromise  himself 
by  accepting  the  offer. 

"It  shows  an  admirable  disposition  in  you, 
my  boy — pardon  me — Mr.  March !"  he  said,  at 
last.  "But — er — I  think  such  a  step  will  em- 
barrass your  relations — ah — at  home." 

"Never  mind  that,  sir.  I  take  the  responsi- 
bility, and  I  must  insist  on  replacing  this 
property." 

Finally  the  warrior  agreed  to  the  proposal. 

"There  is  one  thing  more  I  wish  to  say,  sir," 
March  continued.  "You  were  informed  of  the 
damage  I  did,  but  you  do  not  seem  to  know 
that  I  at  once  expressed  my  regret." 

"To  whom,  then?" 

"To  your  daughter,  of  course." 

The  Major  stared  aghast. 

"Yes,"  said  March ;  "when  she  told  you  of 
the  offense,  she  ought  to  have  told  you  of  the 
apology,  too." 

"My  daughter,  sir?  She  never  told  me  at 
all.  It  was  one  of  my  men  found  it  out.  But 


194  MARCH  AND  APRIL. 

I  should  be  glad  to  learn  how  you  came  to 
speak  to  my  daughter." 

March  saw,  too  late,  the  terrible  mistake  he 
had  made. 

He  stammered,  and  tried  to  avoid  explana- 
tion ;  but  the  Major  insisted.  March's  temper 
rose;  his  hair  also  got  out  of  order:  he  made  a 
defiant  confession,  and  stood  glaring  at  the 
man  who,  it  was  now  clear,  could  never  be  his 
father-in-law. 

"I  see  through  your  maneuver  now!"  cried 
the  old  soldier,  with  a  sardonic  sniff,  indicating 
that  he  smelled  gunpowder  and  liked  it.  "In- 
gratiating yourself  with  me,  eh? — clandestine 
meetings  with  my  daughter — take  me  in  front 
and  flank  at  same  time,  eh?  Well,  sir,  it  stops 
here.  I  refuse  your  overtures.  I'll  have  noth- 
ing to  do  with  property  restored  at  your 
expense,  young  man.  If  it's  restored  at  all, 
your  father's  got  to  do  it ;  and,  what's  more,  I 
shall  write  to  him  to  keep  his  son  off  here- 
after." 

"As  if  I  were  a  dog,  sir?"  shouted  the  young 
fellow,  in  a  towering  passion.  "By  thunder,  if 
you  were  not  so  old —  But  I'll  just  tell  you, 


MARCH  AND  APRIL.  195 

no  one  can  whistle  me  on  or  off,  and  I  forbid 
you  to  speak  to  me  in  that  style." 

"Forbid  as  much  as  you  please,"  the  Major 
hurled  back,  scornfully.  "It's  cheap,  for  I 
don't  propose  to  speak  to  you  at  all." 

"Nor  I  to  you,  sir! 

And  March  went  out  like  a  lion,  and  drove 
down  the  Major's  avenue  roaring.  But  he  hit 
upon  an  ingenious  method  of  consoling  him- 
self. He  repaired  to  the  place  where  the  signs 
were,  in  the  dead  of  night ;  pulled  up  both  his 
father's  and  Maynadier's;  carried  them  pain- 
fully to  the  Hudson ;  and  dropped  them  into 
its  tide.  No  one  could  discover  who  had  done 
the  deed ;  and  March  was  so  loud  in  his  denun- 
ciations of  the  Major,  that  Lowe  even  forgave 
him  his  disloyal  advances  to  the  enemy. 

These  events  made  poor  April  quite  un- 
happy. "But  there's  one  thing  gained,"  she 
said  to  herself.  "March  will  never  think  of 
going  near  the  old  road  now,  because  he  won't 
want  to  meet  me ;  so  I  can  walk  there  as  much 
as  I  please." 

With  a  wisdom  matched  only  by  hers, 
March  also  divined  that,  in  view  of  the  renewed 


I96  MARCH  AND  APRIL. 

hostilities,  April  would  carefully  avoid  the 
debatable  ground,  where  there  would  be  peril 
of  encountering  him.  He  therefore  took  to 
strolling  through  it,  disconsolately,  at  frequent 
intervals. 

And  they  met,  but  were  not  frightened. 
They  met  again  and  again,  and  talked,  and 
came  to  an  excellent  understanding.  The  wild 
barrier  sheltered  them  against  observation  from 
either  side,  but  it  could  not  prevent  a  catbird 
from  watching  them  sharply  while  they 
strolled  along  arm  in  arm ;  and  how  that  cat- 
bird exerted  himself  to  warble  for  them  his 
choicest  variety  of  mocking  songs !  There  was 
one  kind  of  music  he  could  not  imitate,  how- 
ever— that  was  the  sweet,  trustful  murmur  of 
April's  voice  as  she  exchanged  confidences 
with  March.  On  other  days,  when  they  could 
get  away  long  enough  without  attracting 
notice,  they  would  repair  to  a  particularly 
secluded  spot,  where  March  read  aloud  to  her, 
chiefly  poetry,  for  which  April,  as  he  discov- 
ered, had  a  great  fondness.  At  this  time  their 
special  enthusiasm  was  for  Philip  Tyrwhitt,  a 
young  New  York  poet,  who  had  just  "come 


MARCH  AND  APRIL.  *97 

out";  "a  rosebud  poet,"  March  called  him. 
They  pored  over  his  volume  with  the  greatest 
delight,  for  its  pages  were  suffused  with  the 
matin  glow  of  their  own  love,  until  he  became 
for  them  an  inspired  guide,  a  mythical  divin- 
ity, whom  they  imagined  as  living  with  ideal 
grandeur  in  some  higher  atmosphere.  The 
bare  truth  is  that,  just  then,  Tyrwhitt — having 
with  difficulty  secured  a  brief  vacation  from 
the  hot  city — was  staying  at  a  small  seaside 
boarding-house  where  he  paid  five  dollars  a 
week.  But  the  lovers  decided  to  write  to  him 
separately,  in  care  of  his  publishers,  and  tell 
him  what  pleasure  he  had  given  them.  Tyr- 
whitt received  the  letters  with  joy;  they  did 
not  come  together ;  but  he  observed  the  pecu- 
liar names,  and,  taking  it  for  granted  that, 
being  so  unusual,  they  were  assumed  ones,  he 
did  not  answer  the  notes,  but  laid  them  away 
among  the  few  paper  treasures  that  were  the 
only  reward  his  book  brought  him. 

Happy  as  they  were,  though,  the  young 
pair  suffered  from  not  being  able  to  see  one 
another  as  often  as  they  wished,  from  the 
great  caution  they  had  to  observe.  "There's 


198  MARCH  AND  APRIL. 

only  one  way  for  it,"  March  declared,  tempestu- 
ously ;  "we  shall  have  to  get  married,  and  let 
the  old  folks  make  the  best  of  it  afterward." 

April  was  terrified  at  the  thought ;  the  flush 
of  hope  in  her  cheeks  faded  away  to  a  wind- 
flower  white,  and  she  shook  as  though  she 
felt  the  chill  of  a  wintry  air.  But  this  phe- 
nomenon was  only  a  natural  incident  of  the 
transition  from  a  frost-bound  state  of  things. 

Every  time  they  met,  March  urged  the  idea 
with  vehemence,  and  April  resisted  it.  They 
came  nearly  to  the  point  of  quarrel.  "You  are 
so  masterful,"  said  she.  "You  insist  so.  You 
don't  seem  to  see  what  a  terribly  serious  thing 
it  would  be  for  me,  how  much  more  it  involves 
for  me  than  for  you.  It's  like  tyranny  on 
your  part."  And  he  replied,  "But,  April,  you 
are  so  changeable !  One  time  you  tell  me  that 
everything  depends  on  me,  and  that  you  never 
can  be  happy  until  we  have  escaped  from  all 
this  mist  of  uncertainty;  and  then,  when  it 
comes  to  the  point,  you  veer  around  and 
refuse  to  escape."  So  they  went  on  fretting 
together,  until  it  seemed  as  though  they  were 
going  to  supply  a  sequel  to  the  disagreement 


MARCH  AND  APRIL.  199 

of  the  elders.  But  then  there  came  a  Sunday 
when  they  were  in  church.  The  two  families 
had  pews  in  close  neighborhood,  both  being 
too  proud  to  exchange  them  for  others  at  a 
greater  distance ;  and  when  the  prayer  went  up 
that  all  who  were  present  should  be  delivered 
from  "envy,  hatred,  malice,  and  all  uncharita- 
bleness,"  it  found  an  echo  in  the  two  young 
hearts  that  repeated  it  almost  as  if  it  had  been 
uttered  then  for  the  first  time.  As  they  filed 
out  of  the  church,  March  and  April  managed 
to  exchange  a  glance  of  mutual  trust  and  for- 
giveness. 

In  a  week  or  two  a  grand  party  was  given  at 
the  Lowes',  to  which  everybody  was  invited 
except  the  Maynadiers.  March  danced  and 
talked  furiously,  but  was  gloomy  and  ab- 
stracted nevertheless ;  and  all  the  young  ladies 
who  were  there  went  away  with  the  conviction 
that  he  had  been  spoiled  at  college.  The 
Maynadiers,  not  to  be  outdone,  summoned 
local  society  to  a  ball  in  their  run-down  old 
mansion  a  fortnight  later,  which,  of  course,  the 
Lowes  were  not  asked  to  attend.  But  after 
everybody  else  in  the  Lowe  villa  had  gone  to 


200  MARCH  AND  APRIL. 

bed,  a  stalwart  young  man,  wrapped  in  a 
voluminous  light  cloak  and  finished  off  with  a 
slouch  hat,  strode  forth  and  descended  to  the 
old  road,  where,  lying  among  the  bushes,  he 
watched  the  lights  and  listened  to  the  music 
of  the  revelry  in  the  Major's  house,  till  the 
last  lamp-gleam  in  a  certain  window  was  extin- 
guished. And  April,  sitting  by  that  window 
listened  to  the  mournful  chirring  of  the  insects 
in  the  grass  and  trees,  which  at  this  hour 
sounded  so  melancholy  and  purposeless.  The 
insects  supply  a  mournful  refrain  to  the  joyous 
chant  of  summer,  by  way  of  contrast  and  com- 
pensation. "But  they  are  monotonous," 
thought  April.  "They  have  only  a  single  idea 
— to  stick  to  their  one  little  querulous  note. 
Ah,  why  should  we  human  beings,  who  know 
so  much  better,  go  on  doing  the  same  thing?" 

For  all  this,  she  could  not  be  persuaded  to 
take  the  step  which,  in  her  lover's  opinion, 
would  settle  everything.  The  whole  summer 
passed,  and  nothing  decisive  was  done.  When 
winter  came,  March  was  regularly  installed  in 
his  father's  office  in  New  York ;  but  as  soon  as 
April  was  sent  down  to  the  city  to  spend  the 


MARCH  AND  APRIL.  2OI 

season  with  some  kind  friends  who  were  ambi- 
tious to  introduce  her  into  society,  he  discov- 
ered that  it  was  impossible  to  attend  to  busi- 
ness properly  and  go  up  to  Yonkers  every 
night.  So  he  took  a  lodging  in  town.  April's 
chaperon  was  so  vigilant  that,  although  the 
young  people  several  times  found  themselves 
in  the  same  room,  at  various  entertainments, 
they  never  could  get  a  word  apart.  For  March 
to  call  was  out  of  the  question,  and  it  was  just 
as  impossible  to  communicate  by  letter.  Alto- 
gether— or  perhaps  I  should  say,  all  alone — 
March  grew  exasperated  under  these  trials  of 
his  patience.  Yet  a  trial  still  more  severe  was 
in  store  for  him.  The  matron  in  whose  charge 
April  was  placed  bore  sealed  orders  from  the 
Major,  who  could  not  afford  to  come  to  town 
with  his  wife ;  and  those  orders  permitted  a 
moderate  discretion.  In  pursuance  thereof  she 
gave  encouragement  to  an  attractive  young 
gentleman  by  the  name  of  Swan,  who  mani- 
fested a  great  interest  in  Miss  Maynadier.  Do 
not  suppose  that  I  am  going  to  rehearse  the 
old  tale  of  the  hated  rival  whose  heels  loaded 
with  gold  turn  the  scale.  Swan  was  not  as 


202  MARCH  AND  APRIL. 

well  off  as  March  Lowe,  but  he  was  comfort- 
ably provided  for;  he  was  also  good,  honest, 
and  agreeable — a  most  dangerous  combination. 
And  the  Major  and  Mrs.  Major  were  quite 
agreed  that  it  would  be  well  to  solve  the  prob- 
lem of  April's  future  by  letting  her  nestle  un- 
der Swan's  wing.  Naturally,  March  got  wind  of 
what  was  going  on ;  he  heard  of  Swan's  public 
attentions  and  incessant  visits ;  and  the  stir  that 
they  aroused  in  him  all  but  carried  him  off  his 
feet.  "What  a  frightful  winter  this  is !"  people 
said,  complaining  of  the  weather.  It  was  in- 
deed very  cold ;  and  if  you  had  heard  all  of 
March's  tempestuous  ejaculations,  which  he 
hurled  at  the  four  corners  of  his  room,  you 
would  have  said  that  the  ominous  rumblings 
and  whistlings  around  the  chimney  and  the 
windows  of  the  dwelling  where  April  abode 
were  simply  the  outcries  of  his  discontent. 

Hurrying  across  Fifth  Avenue,  one  afternoon, 
he  met  her  coming  up  the  fashionable  thorough- 
fare. It  was  one  of  those  mild,  yielding  days 
that  show  a  willingness  to  glide  over  the  verge 
into  spring-time.  April  came  toward  him  in  a 
suit  of  gray,  with  edgings  of  soft,  whitish  fur 


MARCH  AND  APRIL.  203 

around  her  throat  and  wrists,  like  the  last  lin- 
gering drifts  of  snow.  He  took  his  place  by 
her  side  and  walked  on  with  her. 

"Oh,  you  ought  not  to  do  this !"  said  she. 
"We  must  never  be  seen  together!" 

No  doubt  it  was  an  anachronism,  a  very 
uncalendrical  thing,  for  March  and  April  to 
appear  in  company;  but  March  persisted  in 
keeping  step  with  her  until  he  had  made  a  sharp 
and  clear  declaration  that,  come  what  might, 
he  was  resolved  not  to  be  thwarted  by  Swan, 
and  that  he  should  go  to  visit  her  in  the  mat- 
ron's den  if  she  did  not  immediately  consent  to 
elope  with  him.  "Well,  you  know  I  can't  pos- 
sibly run  away  with  you,"  said  April  plain- 
tively; "so  you  will  have  to  come  and  see  me 
there.  But  I — I  will  write  you  when." 

In  due  time  he  received  her  note  of  warning 
and  heeded  it,  seeking  her  door  on  an  evening 
when  artless  indisposition  kept  her  at  home 
alone.  This  time  March  entered  gruff  and 
threatening,  like  a  lion  again.  He  was  fully 
charged  with  freezing  jealousy.  "This  man 
Swan!"  he  exclaimed.  "I  want  to  have  it 
explained!  If  things  go  on  as  they  are  now, 


204  MARCH  AND  APRIL. 

I  shall  believe — no  matter  what  you  say — that 
you're  going  to  many  him." 

But  April  was  so  unexpectedly  sweet  and 
mild  that  he  could  not  resist  her  blandish- 
ments. His  tawny  mane  was  alarmingly  ruf- 
fled, but  involuntarily  he  began  to  smooth 
it  down  with  his  hand.  April  looked  pale,  but 
she  hesitated  no  longer.  She  promised  to  give 
up  bridesmaids  and  the  reception  and  all  the 
rest,  and  marry  him  where  and  how  he 
pleased.  "It's  a  pity,"  said  he,  "that  that  poet 
of  ours,  Tyrwhitt,  isn't  a  minister;  for,  if  he 
were,  he  would  arrange  to  marry  us,  I'm  sure,  in 
the  thickets  of  the  old  roadway.  There  would 
be  something  appropriate  in  that,  wouldn't 
there,  April?" 

The  light  rested  deliciously  on  the  pale-gold 
hair  above  April's  eyes  as  she  looked  up  to 
answer  him.  "How  lovely  that  would  be!" 
she  cried.  But  then  in  a  breath's  space  she 
moved  her  head ;  the  light  was  lost,  and  she 
moaned :  "It  can't  be  so,  and  we  can  not 
even  stand  up  before  the  world  and  say  that 
we  are  one." 

"Oh,  well,"  March  rejoined  frigidly,  and  his 


MARCH  AND  APRIL.  205 

voice  was  like  an  icicle  dropped  upon  a  flaming 
columbine — "if  that's  the  way  you  feel,  per- 
haps we  might  as  well  give  up  everything." 

"No,  no,"  cried  April,  in  a  shower  of  tears, 
"I  can  not  give  you  up !"  And  so  she  fell 
upon  his  shoulder. 

When  he  left  the  house  March  was  as  gentle 
as  a  lamb.  Meanwhile  Tyrwhitt,  the  poet,  of 
whom  they  had  thought  for  an  instant,  was 
on  his  way  home  to  his  lodgings,  in  worn-out 
clothes,  wondering  how  he  was  to  live  during 
the  next  month. 

It  would  be  useless  to  detail  the  commotion 
caused  by  the  elopement.  When  the  news 
reached  Mr.  Lowe,  that  supposititious  breeze 
against  which  he  had  so  long  been  striving 
stopped  instantly,  and,  figuratively  speaking, 
he  fell  prone  forward,  and  became  quiescent. 
On  the  other  hand,  Major  Maynadier,  who  had 
faithfully  stood  bolt  upright,  toppled  over  and 
fell  backward.  Such  was  the  effect  of  a  single 
gust  of  impulse  on  the  part  of  March. 

The  feud  of  the  two  families  came  to  an 
end.  The  Major  and  his  friend  discontinued 


206  MARCH  AND  APRIL. 

their  pending  suits;  a  grand  reconciliation 
party  was  held ;  and  the  unkempt  growth 
which  had  severed  the  adjoining  estates  was 
cut  down  to  a  genteel  hedge,  completely  oblit- 
erating the  whilom  source  of  strife.  Shortly 
after  the  wedding  celebration  there  appeared 
in  a  magazine  some  verses  by  Philip  Tyrwhitt, 
entitled 

MARCH  AND  APRIL. 

March  and  April,  hand  in  hand, 
Wandered  through  the  dreamy  land  ; 
March  with  wild  and  careless  bluster, 
Like  a  warrior  going  to  muster ; 
April  laughing,  light  and  bland, 
Holding  flower-buds  all  a-cluster. 

But,  before  the  sun  had  set, 
April's  eyes  with  tears  were  wet ; 
Ceased  her  rosy  lips  their  smiling. 
March,  though  eager  in  beguiling 
All  her  fanciful  regret, 
Won  her  with  his  tender  wiling. 

Then  together,  hand  in  hand, 

Glad  again  they  roamed  the  land. 

All  the  land  was  now  awaking ; 

Birds  sang  loudly,  buds  were  breaking; 

"  This,"  said  March,  "  was  what  I  planned 

For  our  bridal  merry-making ! " 

Most  of  the    critics  paid    no  attention    to 


MARCH  AND  APRIL.  207 

these  modest  stanzas ;  but  those  who  deigned 
to  comment  on  them  in  the  daily  papers 
observed  that  it  was  simply  absurd  to  conceive 
of  two  spring  months  making  their  appearance 
together. 

"Do  you  think  it  absurd?"  March  asked  his 
wife,  referring  to  one  of  these  sagacious 
notices. 

"Just  look  me  in  the  eyes  and  ask  me  that 
again !"  April  answered.  "But  how  do  you 
suppose  Tyrwhitt  knew?" 

How  indeed?  He  certainly  never  had  met 
either  the  bride  or  bridegroom,  and  knew  noth- 
ing of  their  history.  Perhaps  the  names 
signed  to  their  tributary  letters  haunted  him, 
and  prompted  his  invention.  No  one  ever 
fathomed  the  secret ;  probably  Tyrwhitt  him- 
self could  not  have  explained  how  he  came  to 
write  those  verses.  Of  one  thing  I  am  sure; 
and  this  is,  that  we  have  here  an  accredited 
instance  of  a  poet's  fantasy  being  carped  at  by 
the  critics  but  fully  confirmed  by  the  reality. 


"RAISING   CAIN." 


IT  was  probably  a  great  surprise  to  Johnny 
Oxhead  to  find  himself  born.  At  all  events, 
he  continued  to  wear  throughout  life  an  aston- 
ished and  rather  dazed  expression,  as  if  he  had 
never  quite  managed  to  make  out  why  he  was 
in  the  world. 

He  was  the  son  of  humble  parents,  and  had 
good  reason  himself  to  be  still  humbler  than 
they ;  for  he  did  not  even  know  who  his  par- 
ents were.  They  doubtless  had  some  clew  to 
their  own  identity,  but  he  had  none.  When  he 
appeared  in  the  world,  they  disappeared — at 
least,  so  far  as  their  relation  to  him  was  con- 
cerned. 

Like  Moses,  he  was  found  among  the  bul- 
rushes— not  of  the  Nile,  but  of  the  Hacken- 
sack  in  New  Jersey — where  he  had  been  left 
with  every  prospect  of  closing  a  brief  existence 
as  obscurely  as  he  had  begun  it.  There  was 
208 


"RAISING   CW/AV  209 

no  convenient  Pharaoh's  daughter  at  hand  to 
rescue  him ;  but  he  was  picked  up  by  Oxhead, 
a  poor  fellow,  half  fisherman  and  half  day  labor- 
er, who  happened  to  pass  that  way  in  his  boat. 
He  had  more  children  of  his  own  than  he 
knew  what  to  do  with ;  but,  probably  for  that 
very  reason,  took  pity  on  the  foundling,  carried 
him  home,  provided  him  with  a  name,  and  gave 
him  a  start  in  life.  Johnny  stayed  with  him 
until  he  was  six  years  old.  Then — inheriting 
a  tendency  to  disappear,  as  his  parents  had 
done — he  decamped  to  Jersey  City,  where  he 
entered  upon  a  variegated  and  uncertain  street- 
boy  career. 

From  bootblacking  he  rose  to  selling  news- 
papers, and  by  some  mysterious  process  ab- 
sorbed from  them  a  slight  knowledge  of  print. 
His  favorite  reading  was  the  head-lines ;  these 
were  the  easiest  to  grapple  with.  Being  a 
newsboy,  he  thought  it  a  misfortune  to  have 
papers  in  his  hands  long  enough  to  peruse  the 
contents  carefully;  but  he  felt  a  keen  profes- 
sional joy  in  all  accounts  of  violent  crimes  and 
deadly  disaster,  and  sometimes,  when  business 
was  over,  paused  to  spell  them  out  and  ponder 


210  "RAISING   CAIN" 

them.  "Fearful  Loss  of  Life!"  or  "Horrible 
Murder!" — these  were  the  phrases  in  which  he 
most  delighted,  for  they  generally  had  the 
effect  of  increasing  his  limited  income. 

By  degrees  he  became  a  sort  of  specialist  in 
this  department.  The  most  interesting  thing 
in  the  world,  to  him,  was  the  variety  of  ways  in 
which  human  beings  could  be  suddenly  and 
unpleasantly  sent  out  of  it;  and  he  had  not 
the  slightest  doubt  that  this  was  the  chief  topic 
in  other  people's  minds.  Seeing  the  promi- 
nence given  to  these  matters  in  the  journals, 
he  naturally  concluded  that  the  proper  study 
of  mankind  was  violent  death. 

Emigrating  from  Jersey  to  New  York  by 
means  of  a  free  passage  on  a  ferryboat,  he  be- 
came a  sort  of  authority  among  the  small  pat- 
rons of  the  Newsboys'  Home,  on  poisoning, 
stabbing,  highway  robbery,  railroad  accidents, 
mysterious  murders  and  lynching. 

"What  are  lynching,  any  way?"  a  little  fellow 
with  pale  and  wizened  cheeks  and  a  meditative 
turn  of  mind  once  asked  him,  at  an  evening 
session  of  the  boys  with  whom  he  consorted. 
"Why  do  they  call  it  that? — somethin'  like 


"RAISING  CAIN:'  211 

pinching,  aint  it? — pinching  the  life  out  of  a 
feller?" 

"No,"  said  Johnny,  with  disdain.  He  had 
thought  over  the  point  a  good  deal,  and  had 
imagined  an  origin  of  the  term,  which  he  now 
firmly  believed  to  be  a  fact.  "You  see,"  he 
went  on,"there  was  a  man  onst  who  did  a  mean 
thing — somethin'  goldarned  mean — I  forget 
what  'twas.  But  some  other  fellers  got  after 
him  for  it.  And  he  useter  go  round  in  a  cart 
what  had  a  tailboard  to  it.  Yer  see?  Well, 
they  got  after  him.  They  found  out  he  done 
it,  and  they  caught  him  while  he  was  drivin' 
the  cart ;  and  one  feller  he  .just  took  the  linch- 
pin out  of  the  tailboard  and  drove  it  into  that 
man's  head  and  killed  him.  That's  how  they 
come  to  call  it  linching!" 

The  meditative  boy's  face  became,  if  possi- 
ble, more  wizened  than  before,  with  the  intens- 
ity of  fascinated  horror  caused  by  this  explana- 
tion. One  or  two  listeners  made  skeptical  re- 
marks, but  they  were  promptly  outvoted  by 
the  others,  because  Johnny  Oxhead  was  an 
authority. 

Nevertheless   Johnny's    life    was    a    dreary 


212  "RAISING  CAIN:' 

and  forlorn  one.  He  was  half-starved,  and  his 
attempt  to  sustain  nervous  energy  by  subsist- 
ing partly  on  cigar  stumps  and  half-burned  cig- 
arettes picked  up  on  the  streets  did  not  mate- 
rially improve  his  health.  To  add  to  his  misery 
he  found  that,  in  spite  of  his  wretched  diet,  he 
was  getting  bigger  every  year ;  and  when  he 
arrived  at  sixteen  he  had  outgrown  his  useful- 
ness as  a  newsboy.  The  smaller  boys,  who 
were  continually  coming  from  somewhere  or 
nowhere,  and  crowding  into  the  business, 
turned  against  him,  and  insisted  on  his  get- 
ting out  of  the  way.  At  first,  relying  on  his 
superior  size,  he  scorned  and  defied  their 
opposition.  But  he  had  no  allies.  All  the 
other  big  boys  were  branching  into  other  lines 
of  work;  and  the  small  ones,  humming  around 
him  like  a  swarm  of  gnats,  finally  drove  him 
from  the  field. 

He  was  reduced  to  taking  occasional  jobs  as 
a  hooter,  to  carry  "extras"  through  the  city  at 
unwonted  hours,  shouting  out:  "Oh,  the  extra! 
Read  the  extra!"  He  was  always  accompa- 
nied by  another  hooter,  of  about  his  own  size 
and  age;  but  while  Oxhead  yelled  out  the 


"RAISING  CAIN."  213 

words  in  a  hoarse,  agitated  tone,  his  compan- 
ion, at  the  other  side  of  the  street,  repeated 
them  in  a  higher  key,  so  as  to  produce  an  artis- 
tic contrast.  Oxhead's  partner  in  the  team 
was  Josh  Ingalls,  and  they  often  achieved  great 
results  as  they  went  around  the  streets  making 
night  hideous  together.  But  the  occupation 
was  too  uncertain,  and  Oxhead,  finding  the 
world  against  him,  and  this  kind  of  life  unprof- 
itable, drifted  to  the  docks,  and  became  a  long- 
shoreman. 

For  several  years  he  went  on  gaining  a  liveli- 
hood in  this  employment.  He  worked  fear- 
fully hard,  lodged  wretchedly,  had  little  to  eat, 
and  was  without  home  or  friends.  At  times 
he  would  be  unable  for  weeks 'together  to  get 
work ;  and  then  he  drifted  along  the  docks  or 
through  the  streets  leading  to  them,  as  a  beg- 
gar or  tramp,  with  no  place  in  which  to  lay 
his  head,  and  existing  only  by  charity.  Some 
nights  he  slept  in  a  corner  on  the  wharves; 
on  other  nights  in  cellar-ways  or  at  the  sta- 
tion houses.  When  business  revived  again,  he 
resumed  the  old  round  of  toil,  getting  kicks 
and  cuffs,  a  good  many  hard  words  and  very 


214  "RAISING  CAIN:' 

small  pay,  for  he  was  not  a  particularly 
valuable  hand.  It  is  not  to  be  wondered  at 
that  the  problem  of  life  puzzled  and  troubled 
him,  or  that  his  constitutional  look  of  dull 
surprise  became  more  fixed  than  ever. 

At  last,  in  a  dim  way,  a  little  ray  of  bright- 
ness pierced  the  fog  of  misery  in  which  he 
existed.  Several  times  in  his  work  around  the 
steamers  and  canal-boats,  he  had  seen  and  talked 
with  Ellen  Skeeney,  the  daughter  of  a  captain 
of  a  coal-barge.  Ellen  was  not  a  beauty,  but 
she  was  a  tall,  shapely  girl,  with  a  rather 
pleasant  face,  and  seemed  to  take  a  fancy  to 
him.  Oxhead,  on  his  part,  fell  in  love  with 
her;  at  least,  so  far  as  he  could  tell — for  all  his 
ideas  were  vague  and  hazy — he  was  in  love 
with  her.  He  did  not  see  her  often,  because 
she  lived  with  her  family  on  the  barge,  and  was 
off  on  the  river  most  of  the  time.  But  he  be- 
gan a  sort  of  courtship,  although  his  social 
position  was  considered  much  inferior  to  hers; 
and,  apart  from  the  girl's  liking  for  him,  he  had 
not  much  chance  of  success,  unless  old  Skeeney 
should  secure  him  a  place  in  the  barge  business 
where  he  could  work  regularly. 


"RAISING  CAIN."  215 

At  this  juncture  Josh  Ingalls,  his  old  partner 
in  "extra"  hooting,  reappeared.  Oxhead  had 
not  seen  Josh  for  several  years.  They  met 
accidentally,  and  Josh,  being  very  hard  up, 
asked  for  a  little  money.  Oxhead  happened 
to  have  some,  and  loaned  him  a  liberal  sum — 
an  entire  dollar.  In  a  few  days  he  found  that 
Josh,  too,  had  begun  to  engage  himself  for  jobs 
about  the  wharves  and  ships.  Very  soon  they 
became  rivals  in  this  line.  Josh  was  smarter, 
stronger,  steadier  than  Oxhead,  and  frequently 
displaced  him.  Moreover  he  came  to  know 
Ellen  Skeeney,  and  showed  a  tendency  to  sup- 
plant Oxhead  in  her  affections. 

Worse  still,  he  postponed  payment  of  the 
dollar  loan  so  long  that  Oxhead  began  to  grow 
desperate  about  it.  His  mind  frequently  re- 
verted to  its  old  lore  concerning  the  destruction 
of  human  beings,  and  he  considered  whether, 
if  Josh  still  refused  to  return  the  dollar  and 
Ellen's  heart,  it  would  not  be  well  to  settle  the 
account  by  taking  Josh's  heart's  blood  as  pay- 
ment. This  mode  of  settling  the  debt  struck 
him  as  being  quite  satisfactory. 

Toward   dusk,  one  day,  he  was  passing  from 


216  "RAISING  CAIN." 

one  wharf  to  another  along  the  heavy  string- 
piece  at  the  inner  end  of  the  Cunard  dock.  He 
had  just  heard  from  Ellen  herself  that  she 
had  accepted  an  offer  of  marriage  from  Josh 
Ingalls ;  and  as  he  roved  along  from  dock  to 
dock,  with  no  idea  as  to  where  he  was  going, 
his  thoughts  were  divided  between  a  desire  to 
throw  himself  into  the  river  and  a  fierce  long- 
ing to  take  bloody  revenge  upon  Josh,  if  he 
could  find  him.  There  was  a  high  pile  of  lum- 
ber heaped  on  the  quay,  leaving  but  a  narrow 
passage  between  it  and  the  sheer  edge  of  the 
dock.  He  chose  to  take  the  narrow  passage, 
where  he  would  for  a  moment  be  screened 
from  all  observation.  But  just  as  he  passed  be- 
hind the  piled  lumber  he  saw  a  figure  sitting 
under  its  shadow  in  the  dusk,  the  figure  of  a 
man,  busily  examining  something  that  he  held 
in  his  hands. 

It  was  Josh  Ingalls,  and  he  was  engaged  in 
counting  over  a  small  bunch  of  soiled  bank- 
notes. He  did  not  observe  the  approach  of 
his  rival. 

Like  a  flash,  Oxhead  darted  upon  him, 
caught  him  by  the  throat,  and  wrenched  away 


"RAISING  CAIN:  217 

the  slender  roll  of  bills.  Ingalls  grappled  with 
him,  and  they  struggled  furiously  on  the  nar- 
row space  between  the  pile  of  lumber  and  the 
edge  of  the  stringpiece  which  overhung  the 
water.  At  first,  so  Oxhead  afterward  said,  he 
meant  no  more  than  to  seize  the  money,  take 
his  dollar,  and  keep  the  rest  long  enough  to  em- 
barrass Ingalls  in  his  engagement  to  Ellen. 
This  seemed  to  him  a  mild  and  justifiable  re- 
venge. But  when  their  hand-to-hand  struggle 
began,  it  became  a  question  which  should  throw 
the  other  into  the  river.  Oxhead  was  much 
the  more  powerful  of  the  two.  They  were  en- 
tirely concealed  from  scrutiny  by  the  haap  of 
lumber  on  one  side,  and  in  two  other  directions 
by  the  blank  walls  of  the  huge  sheds  on  the 
wharves  inclosing  the  dock. 

The  fight  was  short — Oxhead  threw  Ingalls ; 
knelt  upon  him ;  held  him  firmly  by  the  throat 
with  one  hand,  and  then,  mad  with  rage,  drew 
a  knife  which  he  wore  inside  his  belt,  gave  his 
helpless  enemy  two  or  three  savage  stabs,  and 
then  threw  him  heavily  over  into  the  water, 
and  listened  to  the  dull,  plunging  sound  and 
momentary  splash  with  which  the  body  sank. 


2l8  "RAISING   CAIN." 

Oxhead  was  a  murderer!  He  realized  the 
fact  fully,  on  the  instant.  But,  instead  of  re- 
morse, a  wild  exultation  swept  through  his 
heart.  For  the  first  time  in  his  life,  it  seemed 
to  him,  he  breathed  and  expanded  as  a  full- 
grown  man.  All  the  obscure  sufferings  of  his 
aimless  and  wretched  career  were  made  up  for 
by  this  one  moment  of  triumph.  Besides,  he 
was  safe !  No  one  could  have  seen  him  doing 
the  deed.  The  only  other  presence  there  be- 
sides himself  and  the  corpse  now  floating  in  the 
tide,  was  that  of  a  big  Cunard  steamer,  the  prow 
of  which  loomed  up  in  a  black  and  ugly  way 
through  the  gathering  darkness.  There  was 
a  dim  lamp  burning  above  the  deck,  near 
the  bow,  and  the  hawse-hole  for  the  anchor 
chain,  close  to  the  cutwater,  seemed  to  stare 
from  the  black  hulk  like  a  monstrous  eye.  But, 
luckily,  the  eye  had  no  power  of  sight.  Never- 
theless, Oxhead  shuddered  as  he  noticed  the 
resemblance.  He  began  to  feel  restless,  and 
hurried  from  the  spot. 

He  went  forth  with  the  brand  of  Cain  on  his 
brow;  but  no  one  looking  at  him  would  have 
suspected  that  it  was  there.  He  wore  simply 


"RAISING   CAIN."  219 

the  old  look  of  dense  perplexity  which  had  al- 
ways clouded  his  face.  *  *  *  There  were  no 
blood-stains  on  his  clothes. 

He  stuffed  the  paper  money  into  his  pocket 
before  he  emerged  from  behind  the  lumber. 
His  sense  of  elation  began  to  return  presently. 
He  strolled  about  from  one  to  another  of  the 
longshoremen's  convivial  resorts,  produced  his 
money  with  freedom,  treated,  drank,  and  was 
as  gay  as  he  knew  how  to  be.  But  before  he 
crept  away  to  his  squalid  lodging  he  went  back 
once  more  to  West  Street,  opposite  the  dock, 
and,  slouching  along  on  the  side  furthest  from 
the  river,  watched  to  see  if  there  were  any  stir 
going  on  that  might  indicate  the  finding  of  the 
body.  Everything  was  quiet.  He  went  to 
bed. 

The  next  morning  the  papers  had  accounts 
of  "Foul  Play"  and  a  ''Horrible  Murder."  Ox- 
head,  starting  out  early  to  get  his  cup  of  coffee 
and  plate  *-A  buckwheat  cakes,  heard  a  small 
ragged  Hoy  calling  out  the  words  close  by,  and 
at  oner  shrank  back  into  the  hall  of  his  dingy 
lodging.  But,  a  little  later,  he  ventured  forth 
again.  What  need  had  he  to  fear  anything? 


220  "RAISING  CAIN." 

He  did  not  even  trouble  himself  to  look  at  a 
paper,  until  two  or  three  hours  afterward. 
Then,  slowly  reading  the  report,  he  was  startled 
to  find  that  a  sailor  on  the  Cunarder  had  seen 
the  fight  and  the  killing,  and  had  given  a  de- 
scription of  his  appearance  by  which  he  might 
possibly  be  traced.  But  he  did  not  attempt 
flight.  He  believed  that  he  had  had  ample 
cause  for  murdering  Ingalls.  He  knew  the 
penalties  of  killing,  but  he  knew  also  that  mur- 
derers are  often  acquitted.  In  any  case, 
he  had  done  one  of  the  deeds  in  which,  he  felt 
sure,  the  world  takes  the  most  interest,  and  he 
was  not  inclined  to  run  away  and  lose  all  the 
credit  of  his  work.  That  evening,  after  toiling 
along  shore  all  day,  he  was  arrested  and  locked 
up  in  the  Tombs. 

Oxhead  was  now  only  21.  The  reporters 
brought  into  play  various  devices  of  rhetoric — 
pathos,  horror,  indignant  virtue — to  emphasize 
his  adolescent  depravity.  The  case  attracted  a 
great  deal  of  notice.  "Yes,  I  done  it,  and  I 
had  a  right  to,"  Oxhead  declared  with  sullen 
bluntness;  and,  instead  of  setting  people 
against  him,  this  assertion  appeared  to  win 


"RAISING  CAIN."  221 

sympathy.  The  story  of  his  luckless  love  affair 
came  out.  Many  women  called  at  the  prison 
to  see  him.  Nearly  every  day  he  received 
flowers  from  feminine  sympathizers. 

One  morning  the  grated  door  of  his  cell  was 
opened,  and  a  benign-looking  maiden  lady  of 
middle  age  and  of  high  social  position  came  in, 
sat  down,  talked  gently  with  him,  and  pro- 
ceeded to  read  aloud  to  him  for  an  hour  from 
an  instructive  book,  very  little  of  which  he  un- 
derstood. But  he  appreciated  her  effort.  He 
had  killed  a  man,  and  knew  that  he  was  wor- 
thy of  all  the  attention  that  the  public  had  to 
bestow  upon  him ;  and  he  saw  that  this  sweet 
elderly  maiden  comprehended  that  fact.  So  he 
forgave  her  for  the  dullness  of  the  book. 

A  little  fund  was  raised  by  his  admirers,  to 
employ  a  good  lawyer,  and  he  was  greatly 
pleased  by  the  serious,  confidential  interviews 
which  this  gentleman  held  with  him.  He  aston- 
ished the  lawyer  on  one  occasion,  though,  by  say- 
ing to  him  in  a  burst  of  enthusiasm :  "I'm  only 
a  poor,  uneddicated  feller,  fiut,  I  tell  you  what, 
I  never  did  expect  to  be  a  great  public  character 
as  I  am  now.  This  is  the  best  part  of  my  life !" 


222  "KAISING   CAIN" 

And,  as  he  looked  at  things,  this  was  true. 
When  his  plea  of  justifiable  homicide  had  failed 
and  he  had  been  condemned  to  be  hanged,  his 
lot  became  still  more  favored.  He  was  treated 
with  tender  and  even  pathetic  consideration. 
More  flowers  came.  "What  a  pity  they  can't 
keep  fresh  for  my  coffin,"  sighed  Oxhead,  gaz- 
ing at  them ;  and  he  exacted  a  promise  from 
the  sheriff  that  he  would  have  a  special  little 
bunch  of  flowers  provided  as  an  adornment  for 
his  "casket."  The  benign  maiden  lady  of  high 
social  position  came  and  read  to  him  again, 
nearly  every  day,  and  a  spiritual  adviser  also 
visited  him  and  began  a  forcing  process  to  de- 
velop his  soul  and  save  it,  by  a  sort  of  hot- 
house process,  before  it  should  be  too  late. 

In  short,  Oxhead  had  never  until  this  period 
known  what  it  was  to  have  rest  and  leisure  and 
enjoyment.  He  read  with  laborious  attention 
all  that  was  said  about  him  in  the  papers,  and 
looked  back  with  pride  at  the  ascent  he  had 
made  from  his  own  former  humble  place  as  a 
newsboy.  There  was  only  one  drawback  upon 
his  comfort  and  gratification :  that  was,  the  re- 
quest of  the  clergyman  and  the  benign  maiden 


"RAISING  CAIN."  223 

lady  that  he  should  acknowledge  his  act  in  kill- 
ing Ingalls  to  have  been  wrong,  and  repent  of 
it.  But  as  the  day  of  execution  drew  near  he 
saw  that  it  would  make  things  more  peace- 
ful and  add  greatly  to  his  personal  comfort 
if  he  consented  to  gratify  them;  and  accord- 
ingly he  did  so.  Then  there  was  a  petition  to 
the  Governor  for  his  pardon,  which  Oxhead 
generously  and  impartially  encouraged.  Even 
Ellen  Skeeney,  with  copious  tears  and  a 
strong  sense  of  her  own  nobleness  in  do- 
ing so,  signed  the  petition.  But  it  was  of  no 
avail. 

When  the  day  of  execution  arrived  Oxhead 
ate  a  "hearty  breakfast,"  according  to  the  or- 
thodox practice  of  all  redeemed  murderers, 
although  he  was  a  little  disappointed  at  the 
small  space  allowed  him  in  the  morning  papers. 
He  knew  that  some  of  them  would  give  a  col- 
umn or  more  to  the  description  of  his  last 
moments  the  next  day,  when  he  would  no 
longer  be  in  a  position  to  read  the  news.  But 
he  ascended  the  gallows  cheerfully.  From 
that  height  he  was  able  to  view  at  a  glance 
the  wonderful  progress  he  had  made  from  ob- 


224  "RAISING  CAIN:' 

scurity  to  his  present  proud  eminence.  A 
prayer  was  made ;  the  drop  was  sprung ;  and 
Oxhead  shot  up  still  higher. 

The  process  of  "raising  Cain"  had  been  com- 
pleted. 


IN  A  MARKET  WAGON. 


IT  was  in  a  spirit  of  wayward  adventure  that 
I  set  out,  one  evening  in  early  autumn,  to 

walk  from  F to   the  little  town  of  L . 

The  night  was  gusty  and  overcast,  and  before 
I  had  gone  more  than  two  miles,  a  chill  and 
noiseless  rain  began  to  fall  through  the  lugu- 
brious darkness.  I  increased  my  pace  to  a  run, 
as  the  road  descended  into  the  wooded  hollow 
that  lay  before  me,  and  pressed  forward  at  a 
jog-trot  through  the  moist  lowland,  under  the 
overhanging  masses  of  huge  maples  and  chest- 
nuts, and  between  solemn  lines  of  silent  pines. 
I  think  I  might  go  through  many  regions,  walk 
many  nights,  without  encountering  any  scene 
or  situation  that  should  give  a  sense  of  soli- 
tude more  complete  and  melancholy  than  that 
which  here  came  over  me.  I  was  wet  to  the 
skin,  but  glowing  from  my  long  run,  before 
225 


226  IN  A   MARKET    WAGON. 

I  came  upon  the  first  house  that  had  lain  in 
my  path  for  a  mile :  it  broke  in  some  measure 
the  spell  of  solitude  in  which  I  had  for  a  space 
been  enveloped.  After  that,  I  encountered 
dwellings  pretty  frequently,  and  even  passed 
through  two  villages  (of  which  I  did  not  know 
the  names,  for  it  was  my  first  experience  of  the 
route,  and  I  had  not  even  consulted  a  map) 
but  the  air  of  weird  remoteness  still  clung 
around  me. 

Much  that  I  saw  in  passing  has  now  escaped 
me ;  but,  as  I  recall  the  road,  under  that  dim 
illumination  of  the  fleeting,  watery  sky,  I  see 
before  me  at  one  point  a  sudden  bend,  with 
white  railings  on  either  side,  at  the  elbow; 
and  hear  again  the  hoarse  rush  of  a  falling 
stream.  A  house  stood  on  the  left ;  the  stream, 
as  I  found  on  drawing  nearer,  made  its  fall  on 
the  right,  and  then  shot  beneath  the  road, 
where  the  white  railings  were.  A  slender  cur- 
rent had  been  diverted  into  a  high  trough 
beyond  the  little  bridge.  I  stopped  there, 
and,  hollowing  my  hand,  dipped  up  a  shallow 
draught  from  where  the  water  trickled  out  of 
the  duct  into  the  trough.  It  was  sweet,  but  at 


IN  A   MARKET   WAGON.  227 

the  same  time  warm  and  oppressive ; — like  the 
night,  for  it  had  now  ceased  raining.  Indeed, 
I  was  in  a  mood  to  believe  that  it  bore  some 
deep  affinity  with  the  peculiar  mood  of  the 
atmosphere,  the  curious  circumstance  of  my 
adventurous  presence  in  this  spot,  and  the  un- 
certainty as  to  whither  I  should  extend  my 
wandering,  and  how  terminate  it,  before  the 
sunrise  of  the  following  morning.  I  could 
have  fancied  it  a  stream  not  flowing  from  com- 
mon springs,  but  a  charmed  distillation  from 
some  rock-hidden  still,  sent  hither  for  my 
special  need,  to  fortify  me  for  adventures  yet 
to  come.  It  smacked  of  home-made  mystery. 

Next,  after  a  long  interval,  there  was  an 
episode  of  pretty  villas  by  the  roadside,  with 
gardens  trim-kept,  so  far  as  they  could  be  seen, 
and  a  late  light  in  a  library-window,  one  of 
the  drawn-up  curtains  of  which  admitted  the 
hurrying  pedestrian  to  a  transient  glimpse  of 
the  interior.  After  that,  houses  began  to 
appear  in  groups  here  and  there ;  gradually  the 
rumbling  of  a  wagon  made  itself  heard  on  a 
neighboring  road  which  presently  converged 
with  the  one  I  was  on ;  and  at  last  I  entered 


228  IN  A   MARKET    WAGON. 

the  town.  It  was  silent,  and  hardly  a  light 
appeared  in  the  whole  place.  Suddenly  a 
light  wagon,  containing  a  merry  party,  clashed 
toward  me  from  the  darkness  of  a  winding 
street;  deposited  one  of  its  company  at  a 
house,  the  door  of  which  was  shut  with  a  loud 
clap,  as  he  entered;  and  then  rolled  away 
again.  I  looked  up  at  the  church-steeple,  but 
could  not  distinguish  the  hour;  and  it  was  too 
dark  to  see  my  watch-face.  Then  I  stretched 
myself  on  a  bench  in  the  little  green  triangle  in 
front  of  the  church,  and  considered  with  myself 
the  strange  possibility  of  passing  the  night 
there. 

In  a  little  while,  however,  I  walked  on  faster, 
and  came  to  a  large  inn,  which  was  close-shut 
and  darkened.  At  this  moment,  a  small 
wagon,  creaking  in  a  slow,  dry  manner,  came  up 
behind  me,  and  halted  by  the  tall  and  power- 
ful pump  placed  by  the  roadside,  between  the 
house  and  its  open  stable-yard.  A  pair  of 
sleepy  men  with  a  lantern  were  pottering  about, 
and,  on  the  owner  of  the  wagon  asking  them 
whether  many  wagons  had  already  passed,  be- 
came a  little  livelier;  so  that  I  put  some  ques- 


IN  A    MARKET    WAGON.  229 

tions.  Finding  there  was  but  little  chance  of 
securing  a  resting-place  here,  I  determined  to 
follow  out  what  had  all  along  formed  a  possible 
extension  of  my  plan. 

"Can  you  take  me  to  the  city,  if  you're  going 
that  way?"  I  asked  of  the  wagoner. 

"Well,  I  don't  know,"  he  said,  giving  his 
trousers  a  slight,  slow  tap  with  his  stubby  and 
lashless  whip.  "I  shan't  get  there  till  day- 
break." 

"Never  mind,"  I  said,  "I'm  in  no  hurry. 
And  I  would  just  as  lief  pay  you  what  I  should 
have  given  for  a  lodging  here,  if  you'll  take 
me." 

The  farmer  went  to  his  wagon,  and  worked 
at  the  seat  he  had  arranged  for  himself. 

"It  don't  make  any  odds  to  me,"  he  said 
presently.  "Though  I  don't  go  very  fast,  and 
I  don't  know  whether  you'll  find  anything  very 
comfortable  to  sit  on." 

So  it  was  arranged.  I  jumped  up,  and  estab- 
lished myself  on  the  hard  board  laid  across 
at  the  front,  bracing  my  back  against  a  barrel 
of  early  apples,  and  resting  my  foot  on  the 
traces  in  front.  The  horse  was  soon  rested  and 


2 30  Iff  A   MARKET    WAGON. 

refreshed,  so  far  as  the  possibility  lay  open  to 
him  at  all,  and  we  started  off,  at  a  slow  pace ; 
the  animal  striking  the  broad,  hard  highway 
with  heavy  footfalls,  and  the  wheels  ever  crack- 
ling wearily  on  their  axles.  For  a  time,  our  talk 
was  dispersed  and  immaterial.  But  at  last  we 
drew  up  by  a  little  tavern  in  which  a  hospitable 
light  was  glowing,  and  from  which  came  strains 
of  a  desultory  fiddle.  Being  by  this  time  well 
chilled  from  the  previous  rain,  and  my  inactive 
state  during  the  drive  thus  far,  I  followed  the 
wagoner's  lead,  through  a  dingy  room  in  which 
some  red-faced  young  men  in  black  clothes  were 
diverting  themselves  with  a  riddle,  and  a  double- 
shuffle  executed  by  one  more  accomplished  than 
the  rest,  into  a  smaller  and  brighter  apartment 
beyond,  where  we  were  soon  obsequiously  at- 
tended, and  served  with  warming  liquor. 

Here  first  I  had  an  opportunity  fully  and 
distinctly  to  survey  my  companion.  He  was  a 
short  man,  with  a  red  face,  a  sort  of  blunted 
nose,  and  dusty,  tired  eyelids,  and  white  hair — 
it  was  almost  wholly  white.  When  he  mounted 
the  wagon  again,  he  was  more  disposed  to  con- 
versation than  before. 


IN  A    MARKET    WAGON.  231 

"Yes,  it's  hard,"  he  said,  quietly,  in  answer 
to  an  observation  of  mine;  "it  is  a  hard  life. 
Three  times  a  week,  now,  I  get  up  at  mid- 
night, and  come  down  to  market.  Well,  I'm 
getting  old.  Used  to  do  it  every  morning;  but 
I'm  too  old,  now,  for  that.  Get  up,  Robin." 

And  he  smote  the  horse  with  his  ineffectual 
whip. 

"Hard  on  the  horse,"  pursued  the  wagoner, 
"working  in  the  field, — I  can't  spare  him, — and 
then  goin'  to  market."  He  gave  a  low  grunt 
of  luxurious  fatigue,  as  if  to  relieve  the  un- 
speaking  horse;  and  presently  whipped  him 
again. 

We  went  on  talking  of  the  vicissitudes  in  his 
trade. 

"Well,"  said  he,  "I  don't  know  but  I  shall 
have  to  hire  a  man,  next  year,  if  I  can  get  the 
money  together.  It  don't  hardly  pay,  as  it  is. 
Just  make  the  ends  lap  over,  and  no  more. 
My  son  was  with  me  one  year,  on  the  farm,  and 
it  was  a  great  help.  I've  felt  it  more,  since." 

"And  he's  married,  now,  I  suppose,"  said  I. 

"No,"  the  farmer  answered,  in  a  dull  tone, 
"he's  dead." 


232  IN  A   MARKET    WAGON. 

I  can  not  tell  what  passed  immediately  after 
that.  It  was  no  case  for  prompt  response;  and 
yet,  I  may  have  made  one.  The  fanner  had 
summed  up,  in  his  two  syllables,  the  total  re- 
sult of  life,  so  far  as  he  was  concerned  in  it. 
There  was  something  in  his  whole  tone  which 
conveyed  this ;  and  his  estimate  of  the  calamity 
was  beyond  comment  or  correction,  then.  But 
some  quality  of  the  speechless  night-hour 
helped  us.  The  impulse  of  pity,  and  the  sup- 
pressed yearning  for  fresh  and  ever-renewed 
sympathy,  met,  and  in  their  meeting  formed  a 
bond  between  us  for  the  time  being,  at  least. 
The  darkness  shielded  this  broken  and  sorrow- 
smitten  soul,  still  decently  proud  and  shy  in 
the  showing  of  its  grief:  he  sought  relief  in 
speaking  to  me  And  this  was  what  I  heard 
that  night,  moving  slowly  on  the  road,  amid 
the  petty  clatter  of  our  wagon,  and  interrupted 
from  time  to  time  by  a  flick  of  the  whip,  or  an 
ejaculation  to  the  horse. 

"It  was  his  twenty-first  birthday.  I  don't 
know  why  it  should  have  come  just  then;  but 
it  did.  That  was  the  way  the  Almighty  had 


IN  A   MARKET   WAGON.  233 

fixed  it,  I  suppose.  And  it  was  down  at  the 
pond  near  where  you  told  me  you  live.  There's 
where  he  was  drowned. 

"Well,  sir,  it  seems  strange,  now,  to  look 
back  on  'em  all, — those  twenty-one  years !  If 
you  haven't  any  children,  you  can't  tell  what 
it  is.  But  I  say  to  you,  sir,  when  the  child  has 
once  come,  you  ain't  the  same  man,  any  more ; 
you're  that  child,  then,  as  much  as  anything 
else.  If  he  dies, — you  don't  exactly  die,  I 
know  that ;  but  it  ain't  much  better.  Well,  I 
saw  that  boy  growing  up  from  the  little  bit  of 
a  thing  he  was  at  first,  all  the  way  till  he  was  a 
man,  piece  by  piece,  changing  from  a  boy  into 
a  young  man,  so  that  you  couldn't  tell  hardly 
where  one  left  off  and  the  other  joined  on; — 
and  then,  all  at  once,  he  goes  off,  brave  and 
happy  as  ever,  and  that's  the  end  of  it.  Just  a 
little  pleasure  party  of  three  or  four  of  his 
friends  and  himself  going  off  to  bathe ;  and  he 
got  drowned. 

"I  was  twenty-one  myself,  when  I  got  en- 
gaged to  be  married.  Just  his  age!  I  wasn't 
married  for  several  years  after  that,  though. 
And  then  it  was  a  good  while  before  we  had 


234  IN  A    MARKET    WAGON. 

the  baby.  Well,  I  suppose  you  may  say  all  my 
life,  until  he  was  born,  was  a  sort  of  leading  up 
to  that.  And  now  it  seems  a  good  many  years 
to  have  lived,  before  I  had  a  son.  I  didn't  use 
to  think  so.  I  don't  think,  any  way,  I  ever 
thought  of  it  at  all,  while  he  was  alive.  But 
things  change ;  it  seems,  now,  as  if  all  those 
years  had  been  wasted.  Why,  they  only  led 
up  to  his  being  born,  and  now  he's  dead ! 

"But  it  does  me  good,  after  all,  to  look  back 
on  my  life,  and  see  how  I  lived  it  up  to  then 
all  for  him,  without  hardly  knowing  it ;  and 
then,  after  he  came,  how  I  lived  for  him  pur- 
posely, every  day,  and  didn't  often  have  my 
thoughts  off  him.  We  was  pretty  careful  of 
him,  always.  We  never  had  but  him.  He  was 
a  good  boy,  from  the  start, — only  just  wild 
enough  to  show  he  had  a  spirit.  But  we  was 
all  the  tenderer  with  him.  Folks  say  a  child 
is  too  good  to  live,  sometimes.  I  don't  be- 
lieve it.  I  don't  see  why  he  couldn't  have 
lived,  why  he  wouldn't  have  been  living  now, 
if  he  hadn't  happened  to  have  got  drowned. 
You  see,  he  did  live  twenty-one  years.  So  that 
wasn't  the  reason.  But,  even  if  I  wasn't  par- 


IN  A   MARKET   WAGON.  235 

ticularly  afraid  of  his  dying,  it  was  just  the 
same  as  if  I  had  been,  as  far  as  taking  care  of 
him  goes.  He  was  a  good  learner,  and  we  sent 
him  to  school  straight  along;  only  I  had  to 
look  out  he  didn't  work  over-hard.  I  don't 
know  what  he'd  have  been,  if  he'd  lived.  He 
was  too  full  of  real  go,  to  keep  on  farmin'. 
He'd  have  done  it,  if  I'd  said  so.  But  what  I 
wanted  was  to  make  money  enough  to  let  him 
go  his  own  way.  Somehow,  money  seemed  to 
come  easier  in  those  days,  when  we  wanted  it 
for  his  bringing-up ;  though,  of  course,  we  had 
bad  years,  too.  But  that  was  before  the  war. 

"He  went  to  the  war,  too.  I  don't  suppose 
it  was  any  harder  for  us  than  it  was  for  lots  of 
folks  at  the  same  time ;  but  I  tell  you  it  was  a 
terrible  burden.  There  he  was  gone  three  full 
years,  and  only  once  he  came  back  on  a  fur- 
lough ;  and  all  that  time  not  a  thing  his  mother 
could  do  for  him,  except  knit  stockings  and 
hem  shirts,  and  once  or  twice  she  managed  to 
get  a  box  of  good  things  for  him.  Now  when 
I  think  of  it,  there  have  been  plenty  of  times 
that  I  didn't  see  him  at  all, — whole  winters 
when  he  was  off  to  school  and  academy,  and  I 


236  IN  A    MARKET    WAGON. 

never  saw  him ;  and  then  those  three  years  at 
the  war.  Fully  one-quarter  of  his  life  I  didn't 
see  him,  counting  in  odd  days,  I  guess.  And  I 
suppose  I'd  ought  to  have  got  used  to  it.  But 
it  ha'n't  made  any  difference ;  I  miss  him  just 
the  same.  I  pretty  near  gave  him  up,  that 
while  he  was  at  the  war.  And  it  does  seem 
strange  he  shouldn't  have  got  hurt,  all  the  while. 
He  was  in  a  good  many  battles,  too,  and  down 
in  those  places  where  they  had  the  fever  so 
bad;  and  yet  he  came  home  all  right.  Maybe 
that  was  what  made  it  all  the  harder,  when 
something  did  happen  afterward. 

"My  wife,  she  says  perhaps  it  was  wrong  to 
have  been  so  rejoiced  over  his  coming  safe 
home ;  that  we  didn't  think  enough  of  what 
others  had  suffered  that  had  lost  their  children 
in  the  war.  Perhaps  it  was  a  judgment  on  us; 
I  don't  pretend  to  say  it  wa'n't.  What  I  do 
know  is,  it  was  harder  than  ever  to  lose  him, 
when  we'd  just  got  him  back.  Somehow  it's 
strange  he  should  have  died  just  that  way.  It 
was  a  beautiful  day;  you  wouldn't  have  ex- 
pected anything  so  sad  was  going  to  happen. 
The  grass  so  green,  and  sky  shon'  blue  as  ever 


7.V  A   MARKET    WAGON.  237 

any  other  summer  day ;  but  he  got  his  death  of 
it,  for  all  that.  Sometimes  I  see  it  all  before 
me  just  that  way  as  if  I  had  been  there  when  it 
happened  ;  though  I've  never  been  to  the  pond 
since.  Don't  think  I  ever  shall  go.  But  I  see 
him  a-goin'  into  the  bright,  calm  water,  tall  and 
slim, — though  he  had  a  good  broad  chest  and  a 
stout  back, — just  as  full  of  life  and  fun  as  he 
could  be ;  and  then  I  remember  how  he  looked 
when  they  brought  him  home.  Nobody  could 
tell  just  how  it  happened.  The  boys  was  so 
frightened,  they  couldn't  tell  it  straight.  Well, 
I  don't  wonder.  Who  could  tell  how  such  a 
thing  happened?  It's  no  use;  it  wouldn't  make 
it  any  better;  he  couldn't  have  come  alive  again. 
"Yes,  it  was  a  great  help,  as  I  was  saying,  to 
have  him  on  the  farm  that  one  year.  He  was 
a  good  hand.  That's  what  I  was  thinking  of, 
when  I  began  talking  to  you  about  it.  Most 
likely  I  shall  have  to  get  a  hired  man,  next 
spring.  I  was  thinking  of  having  another  horse ; 
Robin's  pretty  stiff.  I  need  a  new  one,  pretty 
bad.  But  I  guess  I  shall  have  to  put  the  money 
into  a  hired  hand.  Go  'long,  Robin ;  seems  to 
me  you're  awful  dull  to-night." 


238  IN  A   MARKET    WAGON. 

Before  the  first  morning  twilight  crept  along 
the  highway,  I  had  left  the  farmer.  Our  roads 
diverged ;  I  leaped  down  from  my  rough  seat 
beside  him ;  I  have  never  seen  him  since.  For 
a  little  while,  I  heard  the  wooden  rattling  of  his 
modest  cart,  as  he  drove  on  toward  the  city 
by  another  way  from  that  which  I  followed. 
Then  the  sound  died  away.  But  when  the 
sunrise  appeared,  floating  in  over  the  sea  and 
crowded  city,  I  thought  of  him  still.  It  was  a 
dawn  fairer,  as  it  chanced,  than  many  fair 
dawns  I  have  known.  The  sky  in  the  east  was 
set  thick  with  clear-cut  clouds  of  fresh  crimson, 
drifting  in  long  lines  with  their  points  against 
the  wind,  and  separated  each  from  each  by  slen- 
der rifts  of  gray.  As  yet,  only  an  occasional 
vehicle  of  clumsy  sort  clattered  over  the  pave- 
ments ;  and  in  the  intervals  of  quiet,  a  dim  and 
multitudinous  whisper  seemed  to  pervade  the 
air,  as  of  the  ocean  softly  breathing  in  a  dream. 
The  farmer  was  by  this  time  breakfasting  in 
a  dingy  refreshment-stand  of  low  price,  near 
the  scene  of  his  impending  business.  In  an 
hour,  market  would  begin. 

THE  END. 


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